Try as he might, Detective Watts could not detach himself from the horror that had just played out in front of him. It was a crime scene now, he tried to tell himself, and he knew what to do with a crime scene.

Blood was roaring in his ears. For a moment he was back in the darkened church at Yonge and Heath, Gus Jackson dying next to him, a desperate Crabtree breathing in ragged gasps as blood seeped around the hot bullet in his shoulder. He recalled the scene in the morgue as he held Crabtree down, heard his yelps and screams, talked him through Miss James' impromptu surgery to save his life. Seeing him wounded that way had been bad enough. Watts could not even look at the man now: he knew he could not bear to see him dead, or worse, watch him die.

He wished to utter a prayer. But to whom? The Jewish G-d of his heritage? The Christian one that sustained the landlady who raised him? The Greek goddesses his sister held in such reverent regard?

He could not choose, and thus decided to send it out to whoever might be listening. Let George live. Let George be well.

Doctor Ogden was rushing to the man in the chair, crouching next to him, yanking off her gloves and tossing them to the floor. "George! Stay with me!"

He's alive?

"George, your neck is bleeding badly. I'm going to have to press on it, quite firmly. I'm sorry." His eyes widened as he heard George grunt in response.

His neck! Not his head!

Llewellyn wondered whether he dared allow himself a glimmer of hope. It flared up anyway, before he could decide to shoo it away, and he could not resist looking up at the constable. He's alive!

George's breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. He's breathing! Watts was elated. The glimmer flickered even more brightly.

It died back down immediately, though, at the sight of the blood gushing freely from the side of George's neck. His shirt and waistcoat were already soaked as Doctor Ogden clasped her bare hands on the wound to try to stanch the flow. "Clean cloths. I need clean cloths. Tea towels. Something, immediately. We have to stop the bleeding and get him to the hospital. We need an ambulance carriage."

"McNabb!" barked the inspector. "See to it!"

"Right away, sir," the burly man replied, sprinting out the door toward the nearest call box.

Watts felt rooted to the ground, his head buzzing as he became aware of the flurry of activity around him. Henry was throwing drawers open looking for the towels. Detective Murdoch and Miss Newsome were kneeling next to the injured man to untie his wrists, and Brackenreid was down at his right ankle to free it as well. Henry burst back with at least six white towels and thrust them toward Doctor Ogden.

"I can't let go for that long, Henry. Take the first towel and put it between my hands."

Henry recoiled at the request, clearly uncomfortable with getting so near the blood. Watts watched him swallow hard, and place the towel as he had been asked.

"Thank you, Henry. The others can go right there on the table." Blood dripped between the fingers that she was rearranging around the towel, loosening her grip on the wound for as short a time as possible. Henry stepped back, ashen, and began to pace the floor. It was clear he was having a hard time catching his breath. The man must be consumed by guilt, Watts surmised. He eliminated the threat and reduced the harm to George, but George was further harmed nonetheless. I shall have to speak with him. Llewellyn Watts knew far more than he wished to contemplate about feeling guilty for someone else's injury.

He refocused, and noticed two things as he observed the scene. First, Doctor Ogden was certainly the right one to have in a medical crisis: she had stepped in to lead George's care with authority and grace. Watts was most impressed. What a relief it was to have a knowledgeable professional in charge this time.

Second, and far more worrisome, was what he saw happening each time someone touched George. The man grimaced and flinched each time fingers or palms (or Effie's lips) made contact with his skin. In an instant he knew what was wrong.

"Stop touching him," he said firmly.

Everyone stared, Murdoch in particular looking irritated and perplexed. "Watts? Come now! How else would we free him?"

"And how do you propose I stop the bleeding without touching him? What are you thinking, Llewellyn?" Doctor Ogden sounded annoyed as well, as she pressed a second tea towel to the top of the blood-soaked first one.

"Of course I didn't mean you, Doctor. But the rest of you. You see him resisting, do you not? He… he thinks we're Miss Smythe." The thought made him sick to his stomach. "Look at him. He doesn't even recognise us. We mustn't touch him any more than is absolutely necessary. He doesn't know iiiiit's… not she."

"Dear God," Brackenreid muttered, clearly shaken as he fully grasped Watts' words.

The fight immediately went out of Julia, and she nodded ruefully. "Of course. Very good, Llewellyn. I'm sorry. He's deeply traumatised. He needs us to be as gentle as we can right now." She pressed the towels harder to George's neck, and leaned toward his ear. "It's Julia, George. It's Doctor Ogden. You're safe. I'm sorry, George. I'm so sorry." She grimaced, and shook her head before she continued. "The rest of you here. Finish untying him, and touch him as little as possible, if you please. Tom, would you elevate his foot and get that bandage off it. It's most likely done more harm than good by now."

"Sir?" one of the other constables ventured.

"What is it, Jenkins?" Brackenreid practically snarled at the man. The inspector's fear, as it usually did, was manifesting itself as anger.

"Uh, sir, Miss Smythe."

"What about her?"

"Well, she's dead, sir."

"So I gathered, sunshine!"

"Well, sir, there's a problem. With Miss Hart in the cells, we don't have a coroner. Whom shall I call to the scene?"

Doctor Ogden caught Brackenreid's eye as he gingerly unwound the bandage from George's foot, and shook her head. "I can't, Tom. George. He's bleeding so much I'll likely have to open his neck at the hospital to repair the vein."

"Right, then, Jenkins, she'll have to wait. Take as many photographs as you can. We'll fetch the body to the morgue, and try the coroner in Hamilton."

There was a loud knock on the doorframe, and McNabb welcomed two ambulance attendants bearing a stretcher. Watts swooped out of their way, nearly losing his balance, and the men arrived at George's side.

One of them, a young blond man, addressed Doctor Ogden. "All right, ma'am, we'll take it from here."

"You'll do no such thing." Watts did not recall ever hearing her be so brusque.

The other attendant, a lanky young man with darker hair, laughed aloud. "And who might you be to tell us that?"

"You are medical students, are you not?" They nodded. "Well, I am a qualified surgeon on staff at Toronto Mercy Hospital. I will remain in charge of this man's care."

"Charles! It's Doctor Ogden!" the blond man whispered to his companion, who gawped in obvious disbelief as he backed away.

Brackenreid nearly smiled, his eyes cold. "Don't try her, son."

"Let's get him onto that stretcher. We must transport him to Toronto Mercy immediately. The wound does not appear to be particularly deep, but given the volume of blood he's losing, there appears to be damage to the external jugular vein. I'll likely need to resect the compromised section and perform an end-to-end anastomosis..."

Watts was utterly lost as he witnessed the inspector and Detective Murdoch carefully lift the wounded man onto the stretcher while Doctor Ogden maintained the pressure on his neck. George looked far worse than he had that ghastly night in the morgue, and this time Watts saw no way to be of help. He felt sick as he watched George borne out what remained of the door.

George was lying face down in Professor Bennett's office, silently reeling from the impact of the shot to the back of his bulletproof vest. It knocked the wind out of him, and it hurt far more than he'd imagined. He hardly had to feign injury as they'd planned. Murdoch's hand was on his back. He heard shouting. Don't just stand there, man, call an ambulance!

He was flat on his back on the floor of a church, searing pain erupting throughout his shoulder. Higgins and Jackson moaned nearby. Watts caught him as he tried to sit up. Bless Watts. He lay back down and closed his eyes. He's for the morgue. I'll handle that.

He was on the table in the morgue. Watts held him down with gentle hands, anaesthetised him, soothed him. Hold him. He heard himself scream as Miss James dug the bullet out of his chest. It's all right, George. It's all right. Steady on, George. It's all right.

He was sinking to his knees, fighting in darkness against a sweet-smelling cloth pressed roughly to his face. His limbs started to drift away. He startled awake to brilliant sunlight, nursing a roaring headache, covered in the mud of a farmer's field.

He was sitting on a crate on a busy corner, his ears ringing from the explosion that would knock Henry out for days. Acrid smoke filled his lungs, and blood trickled from his temple down his cheek. He was so dizzy. He had to help the detective. He tried to stand, but the inspector's meaty hand on his shoulder gently pushed him back down. Stay where you are, Crabtree. Detective Murdoch will be fine.

He was moving, somehow. It was too dark to make out where, or how. Someone was speaking to him. A woman, most likely. He struggled to recognise the voice. Edna? Effie? Nina. No, not Nina. Maud? Aunt Dahlia? Aunt Rhoda?

Aunt Rhoda. Poor Aunt Rhoda. Aunt Azalea had once called her "the pearl of the rectory."

The name "Pearl Smythe" glided past.

Oh.

Oh.

Amelia.

The ordeal of the past two days came rushing back, and his heart sank even as it started to pound. It was difficult to see. Something was pressing hard on his neck. Oh God, she's trying to choke me again—

There were many hands. Whose were they? Did they even exist? Were they Amelia's? He shuddered. He didn't want her touching him, ever again. He tried to shy away.

The voice continued speaking. "George! Shhh. George. Relax. She's gone, George. You're free. We're going to take good care of you, George. We're taking you to the hospital. You're safe now. You're safe."

The voice kept up a steady, comforting patter. It was familiar, somehow. It didn't sound like Amelia. It took time, but finally he recognised it. Was it real? Or another trick of the mind?

He had to believe it was real.

"Doctor Ogden…" he rasped, and began to cough, shaking against the painful pressure on his neck.

"Yes, George, yes, yes, yes. It's me. It's Julia. Shhh. Just lie still and let us look after you. Lie still. You're bleeding. I'm trying to stop the flow. You're with us now. Let us help you, George. Shhh."

George's whole body slackened with relief. He watched as the world faded away.