Early evening, September 9

William was up and puttering about the kitchen, scrubbing some potatoes for dinner, when it dawned on him that it was exactly ten days to the hour from when George became ill. The quarantine is officially over! He was elated. He was about to call out the good news to Julia and George when there was a knock on the door. It hit him: My God, we can open the door and let people in. It took him a moment to catch his breath before he took off his apron and started toward the front hall. Julia, though, had beaten him there, and he could hear a veritable cacophony of cheerful voices greeting her.

"William! William!" George hissed, and William went to him instead.

"Yes, George?"

"Would you be so kind as to move the commode chair to somewhere more private? When it's just the three of us, I don't mind having it right here, but I shouldn't feel comfortable with its proximity in the presence of guests."

William began to tell George that he saw no reason to move the chair – the bodily functions it accommodated were universal, after all – but caught himself. George was allowed his privacy. "Of course, George." He picked it up and carried it to the bedroom.

He re-emerged to find the great room full of people: the Inspector and John Brackenreid, Detective Watts, and Ruth and Henry Higgins-Newsome surrounded Julia, and all seemed to be talking at once. He was so overwhelmed by the din that he nearly turned around to head straight back the way he came, but Julia caught his slightly panicked eye, and raised her hands to quiet everyone.

"I beg your pardon, but I must ask that you all keep your voices low. William is recuperating from a concussion, and loud noise is quite painful to him." William sighed in gratitude as the decibel level dropped. His eyes shone as he took a few moments to survey the faces of his friends, one by one.

The Inspector regarded him with such deep, unspoken empathy that William found it almost impossible to bear: Thomas Brackenreid knew in his bones what it was to come back from life-altering injury. "Come here, me ol' mucker," he told William, and drew him into an embrace that William was glad to reciprocate.

"Thank you, sir," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"No 'sirs' in this house, remember, William?" George piped up from the bed.

"Crabtree!" Thomas barked. "Don't encourage Higgins!" Julia's eyes widened, and she raised a finger to her lips. "Oh, right," he said more quietly. "Sorry, Murdoch."

"It's all right, ah, Inspector."

Thomas cracked a smile, and gripped William's arm. "Well, all right, I suppose. For tonight it's Tom. William."

"Thank you… Tom." William smiled back and then turned to young John, who beamed and reached out to shake his hand as Thomas made his way to George's bedside.

"It's good to see you. All three of you," said John.

"Likewise, John," William said, and pulled the surprised young man into a hug. "Thank you both for looking after us."

"We were happy to. You were all greatly missed at the station."

"Well I suppose we would be. We do keep the place running, after all," quipped George.

"Bugalugs," the Inspector greeted George.

"Uh… Tom," George replied, and reached up to shake his hand. Thomas shook George's hand with both of his own.

"It's good to see you, Crabtree," he said softly.

"Likewise. You and everyone are quite the sight for sore eyes. I must say we've had quite a time here."

"You look terrible. Quite… scrawny," Watts cut in without preamble, hunching over George to inspect him closely.

"Well I did almost die," George shot back good-humouredly.

"He did!" said Julia brightly. "But we're so very glad he didn't. I assure you he looks far better now than he did a week ago."

Watts landed in the armchair next to George and cleared his throat. "If that's the case, then you must have looked truly dreadful indeed."

Julia's face clouded. "He did. He was so dreadfully ill." Her voice dropped. "I confess there were times over the past ten days when we were quite frightened."

"But he's still here!" exclaimed Henry, who had arrived at the other side of George's sickbed and stood expectantly, waiting for his friend to push himself up for an embrace. Julia shushed him immediately and he flinched, contrite.

"Hello, Higgins!" said George. "I… I can't hug you, I'm afraid. Not unless you come down here."

"George is still very weak," William explained quietly. "The illness has quite debilitated him. It could be some time before he's back on his feet."

Henry leaned over to Crabtree and practically lifted him off the bed in a bear hug. He grunted in appreciation. "It's nice to see you too, Higgins."

Ruth fanned herself behind them. "Hello, George. I suppose I should be glad you are still with us. Henry has been quite melancholic for the past ten days."

"Hello, Ruth. Thank you for your warm wishes. I can't tell you what they mean to me," George replied, failing to hide a smirk. Julia managed to suppress a snicker.

"Now, now, Ruth! Be kind. George has been through quite an ordeal," Julia chided the younger woman mildly.

Ruth harrumphed a little. "Very well," she said. "George. Though I am not fond of you, I do not wish for you to die. Despite the fate you brought upon my dear, dear brother." She paused. "Although Henry did ask me not to bring him up today. Oh, dear. I'm sorry, Henny-Penny! I didn't mean to."

"'Henny-Penny'? Still on that one, are we?" inquired George a touch sardonically.

Henry picked up Ruth's hands and looked at her imploringly. "Oh, my sweet Roo-Poo, remember? We are happy that George is still with us."

"I suppose so. George, congratulations. You didn't die. Oh! I hope everyone enjoyed the pastries?"

Finally, when greetings had been exchanged with everyone and a good number of the remaining pastries had been brought out of the fruit cellar and laid out on platters, William and Julia turned to the gifts their guests had brought. Guests! thought Julia. In our house! She was nearly giddy.

The first gift was a wheeled chair made of wicker that Henry had managed to find in a storage room at the back of the station house. "Higgins?" said George. "This chair looks awfully familiar. This wouldn't be the same chair that we used for the corpse of the man you've apparently asked your wife not to name in front of me, now would it?"

"The very one, George." Henry grinned.

George tilted his head philosophically. "I… wish I knew what to make of that," said George. He grinned back, and looked around at his friends. "Whatever's in that hamper smells quite lovely."

"Indeed it does," said William, and picked it up onto the table to begin unpacking it.

As he did so, Julia realised with disappointment: "I have to pack up my laboratory, don't I."

William looked up at her and said, "Regretfully, I believe you do, if we are to seat all these ladies and gentlemen at our table."

Julia sighed. "Very well, if I must, I must. Would any of you be so kind as to fetch one of the empty crates by the wall and… no, wait. The sheets this glassware was wrapped in are already packed and destined for the laundry. I suppose we'll just have to move everything. William, I don't suppose there's any room for all this in the workshop?"

William and all five of their guests made quick work of transferring the entire setup to the second bedroom, once William had cleared a table to accommodate it. Julia had to disassemble various parts of it for transport, and it would take some time to put back together, but she was pleased that nothing was broken. She had been hoping to establish her own corner of the workshop, as she had seen how happy William was to settle into his. As he had said once, sharing workspace meant they could always benefit from each other's counsel.

Watts and John set the table for eight as William transferred George into the wheeled chair—the movement appeared practised and smooth already, Thomas noticed—and Julia finished unpacking the hamper and laying out a sumptuous dinner. There was a rich, hearty cassoulet, still warm from the oven; three loaves of fresh French bread; cabbage salad; green beans sautéed with onions, tomatoes, garlic, and herbs; and peaches and cream for dessert.

"My goodness!" Julia enthused quietly, mindful of William. "This all looks beautiful! To whom do we owe our thanks?"

John spoke hesitantly. "Well, I've been observing Mother quite often in the kitchen…"

"You, John? You cooked all this?" Julia was amazed.

"Well, with some help from Father." He looked over at the Inspector appreciatively.

"Tom!" Julia was disbelieving, and everyone else looked shocked.

Thomas smiled, just a little. "You must never tell Margaret," he said conspiratorially. "She doesn't let anyone touch her recipes. She'd have my head."

"The two of you, talented chefs right here under our noses!" said George. "And here we all were thinking Mrs. Brackenreid was the only gourmet in your household."

"Well as far as anyone else is concerned, she is," said Thomas firmly. "If you all know what's good for you."

"Is that so, then," said Julia, amused.

"Yes," said Thomas firmly. "Now let's eat."

The meal was hearty and delicious, the cassoulet most filling ("put some meat back on those bones, Crabtree!" the Inspector had remarked as he served him a generous helping), and the company most enjoyable. After supper, Henry presented George with another crate.

"Now Higgins, you know I can't open that right now," said George jovially. Julia had allowed him half a glass of wine with the meal and it had gone straight to his head.

"Of course not, George, I don't expect you to. Here, I'll get it for you."

Henry unpacked the crate one item at a time, and handed each to George, or put it on the table near him. George was immeasurably glad to be reunited with some of his favourite things, including his typewriter and his book in progress, some of his clothes, his favourite pen and notebook, and his newsboy cap. "We thought you might like some familiar things, since you're still laid up here," said Thomas.

"Indeed I would!" George was clearly moved. "This is terribly thoughtful of you. I… I don't know what to say. Thank you, uh, Tom."

"It was Watts' idea," said Thomas. "He and I went to your boarding house and sweet-talked our way past your landlady into your room."

George grinned as he imagined that encounter. "I dare say the thought of anyone sweet-talking the cantankerous Miss Pratt, especially the two of you, seems quite preposterous. But I'm sure she was quite thrilled for the kerfuffle. It seems she's quite a fan of the excitement inherent in the constabulary—"

"And Higgins here took up a collection from the lads at the station house." Henry obligingly handed George a neatly tied box from the Timothy Eaton department store.

"Open it, George!" Henry beamed.

"Now this I can manage," said George, and he pulled the end of the ribbon so he could lift the lid. The box contained a fresh ream of typewriting paper—Berkshire linen wove, George noted with pleasure—as well as three typewriter ribbons, a bottle of Stephen's Blue Black Writing Ink, and a brand new fountain pen in an elegant case. "Henry Birks & Sons!" George was elated. "You shouldn't have. This is a fine pen! Thank you, Higgins! Please thank the lads for me!" His eyes grew misty. "This is so very kind, of all of you."

Thomas lifted a meaty hand to clap George on the shoulder, but William caught his wrist before he could make contact. "Other shoulder, Tom. That one's still healing."

"Of course." He squeezed George's right arm instead, and looked him in the eye and nodded. "We're glad you're still with us, me ol' mucker."

"So am I, sir—Tom. So am I."

By nine-thirty, both George and William were fading fast, and John, Watts, and the Higgins-Newsomes graciously took their leave, Julia sending them all with the last of the pastries. John collected the first of the crates of the Brackenreids' dishes as well. Julia quietly asked Thomas to stay behind—here was much she wished to discuss with him, not least of all the situation with Margaret, and she was also quite keen to join him in indulging in the scotch he'd tucked into the side of the hamper that had borne everyone's dinner.

The Inspector nursed a dram in the armchair by the fireplace while Julia pushed George's chair to the ensuite washroom, past an already sleeping William, and helped him with the evening's ablutions. They were back quite soon, and Julia transferred a nearly limp George back to the hidden sofa, where he fell asleep in moments. She had kept the light level subdued all evening, largely for William's sake. Now that George was down for the night, she dimmed the lights almost to complete darkness, and lit a number of candles that she had arranged in the fireplace, as it was still too warm for a real fire. Finally, she settled down in the chair next to the Inspector.

"Tom," she began.

"Doctor Ogden." His tone was affectionate. "You're in trousers again. Starting to be a familiar sight."

"I am," she agreed, and smiled. "I've hardly worn a skirt this whole time. It's been glorious." A cloud passed over her face. "About the only thing that was."

"As bad as that, then?"

"Oh, Tom. It was awful. I… I finally snapped this morning."

"All got to be a bit much, didn't it," he said sympathetically.

Julia took a belt of scotch. "My judgement was getting rather questionable, and when I realised it I came quite undone." She felt the warmth of the alcohol spreading through her, and relaxed a little. "William was marvellous."

He nodded approvingly. "Are you feeling better?"

She was thoughtful. "Well… yes. Yes, I suppose I am. And your kindness throughout this nightmare will not be forgotten."

"I've no doubt you'd do the same, Doctor."

"Well, yes, of course, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate what you've done for us." She finished the contents of her glass, and reached for the bottle. "Another?"

"Don't mind if I do." He drained his tumbler and held it out; she refilled his and her own. They sat for a time in silence, watching the candlelight flicker and dance.

"That Miss Hart of yours. She's rather a strange duck, isn't she," Tom suddenly remarked.

Julia blinked in surprise. "Why, yes, I suppose she is. Quite 'keen to impress,' as she herself put it."

"She is indeed," said Tom, poker-faced, waiting to see if Julia would defend her.

"Most ambitious and efficient." She swirled the whisky around in her glass. "But there's something I can't quite put my finger on. I haven't grown fond of her the way I did Rebecca, or Emily. I'm happy to support her for the principle of the thing, but, well… I don't like her."

Tom raised both eyebrows. "Beat about the bush, why don't you?" he teased.

"I suppose that is awfully blunt, isn't it?" Julia giggled. "The scotch must have loosened my tongue."

"She had quite the row with Margaret, let me tell you. At least according to Margaret."

"Oh, dear," sighed Julia. "I saw that, but I didn't hear. But it appeared, at least to me, that Margaret was the instigator."

Tom sighed, and threw back the rest of his drink. The crystal glass sparkled in the candlelight as he put it down. "Wouldn't surprise me in the least. And I suppose she thinks I started all of this."

"How's that?"

"Well, when Miss Hart telephoned, I told Margaret she should trust her, because you sent her."

"I sent her?" said Julia, perplexed. "I did no such thing. I told Miss Hart that Margaret was helping with food, but I never suggested that she contact her. That was entirely Miss Hart's own idea."

"Margaret was most put out. She was right chuffed to be in charge of feeding you lot, and she pitched a fit when Miss Hart insisted on feeding George."

"Well, what she provided for William and me was truly astonishing. Finer than much of the fare we've eaten in the best restaurants. I can't fathom how much effort she put into it. Now that I think about it, perhaps she felt that she was in competition with Miss Hart...?"

Tom leaned forward for a moment and thought. "Oy. Maybe she did. She threw a right proper wobbly when she ran into the young lady right outside here – said she was insulted by the 'patronising' explanations of diet for fever patients."

"It looked like quite the row. Was that what prompted her to leave for her sister's?"

"Indeed it was." They both sat back in their chairs and sighed. Julia poured herself and Tom another dram. She sat staring at the lambent candles for some time, so long that Tom finally asked, "Doctor? You all right?"

"I'm fine, Tom. I'm just thinking. What would Doctor Freud think of all this? Did Margaret row with Miss Hart because she's angry with you?"

"Pardon?" Tom was confused. The scotch was starting to blur the edges of the room.

"Doctor Freud calls it his theory of transference. Transference happens when someone directs the anger they feel at one person toward someone else entirely." She tilted her glass, and looked through the amber liquid at the flames.

Tom squinted at her. "And why would someone do that?"

"Tom," she said suddenly.

'Yes, Doctor Ogden."

"John mentioned that his half-sister is coloured, is she not?"

"She is indeed, and quite beautiful, if I do say so. Sharp as a tack, hardworking… really, just a lovely young woman. I'm proud of her. But…" he trailed off forlornly. Julia waited, listening. "But I can't say any of that anywhere near Margaret."

"What's her name, Tom?"

"What? Who?"

"Your daughter. What's her name?"

"Ah! Nomi." His face lit up. "Her name is Nomi Johnston. Her mother is Sarah Johnston—now there's a woman—and I'd never have left if I'd known she was up the duff."

"Does Margaret know of Nomi's complexion?"

Tom considered for a moment. "I suppose she does. John did mention it to you…"

"So Margaret feels threatened by your attachment to a coloured woman, the mother of your illegitimate daughter, and now she sees you championing another coloured woman. Perhaps Margaret looks at Miss Hart, and sees Sarah and Nomi instead."

"Oh," said Tom, his eyes wide. "Oh. Bloody hell." He shifted in his chair, taking in Julia's words.

"I… have some reservations about parts of Doctor Freud's work, and I confess I've gotten a bit behind in following it since I decided to become a surgeon, but I find his theories regarding the unconscious to be quite compelling."

"Doctor Ogden. When you left for Austria to become an alienist—"

"Psychiatrist," she corrected him, almost by reflex.

"—very well, psychiatrist. I thought it was all just so much mumbo-jumbo. But maybe there's something to it."

"It's kind of you to acknowledge that, Tom," she said dryly.

He snorted, and refilled their glasses once more.

Thomas Brackenreid said his good night in the wee hours of the morning, after the bottle of scotch was gone. They had raised their glasses to the end of the quarantine, and to Salvador D'Souza, and to Crabtree's recovery, and to their hopes for Murdoch's speedy one. (Thomas, shaken by the news of Murdoch's affliction, agreed to be discreet until Murdoch was ready to disclose his status himself.) Tom raised a generous glass to Julia herself. Julia nearly shed a tear more than once to be back in the Inspector's company.

After she bid him a final good night with a warm and heartfelt embrace, she closed the door and turned to survey the dimly lit house. George was snoring quietly. She was surprised that she and Tom had not awakened him, but, then, the day's excitement had quite exhausted him, especially given his enervated state. The table and the kitchen were tidy—Watts had insisted on cleaning up, and had recruited Henry and Ruth to help—and the candles in the fireplace had burned almost completely away. Julia's head was buzzing with scotch and the afterglow of warm companionship. She decided it would be wise to drink a considerable amount of water before she went to bed, and headed to the kitchen to do so.

Eventually she pulled a dining chair over to George's bedside, and sat for a time to watch his slumber. She took great comfort in watching his chest rise and fall, listening to the rhythm of his breath. Not too fast, not too slow. Perfect. The room spun around her for a bit, reminding her that she really should herself be asleep. No reason now for her not to be: George was safe and on his way to being well.

"You are most beloved, George Crabtree," she whispered, and leaned over and gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead. He stirred, but only briefly. Julia rose, put the chair back under the table, blew out the last of the candles, and went to join her cherished William in their bed.