Carlisle returned early the next day.

It had been raining for most part of the dawn. The monotonous tapping of rain drops against the tin of the roof.

There was not a soul who liked him in Clementine's abode. The servants all found him strange, calculating, and uncouth. There was something unnerving about his presence.

It was almost hard to believe this man was a Doctor. A profession that nurtures life; a profession that gives life, yet this man barely showed life at all. He was withdrawn, yet irreverent. The way he handled his profession was a travesty to the word Physician.

Yet the most confusing part about him is, the fact that he had great skill, diligence, and devotion to the craft he is practicing. But he had displayed such a remoteness to the people surrounding him, it was infuriating.

He was dedicated, methodical, and yet it almost seemed as if he enjoyed subjugating those around him. Stepping on their egos, personal feelings, and all sense of propriety. Yes he has manners at best, but his manners were aberrant as he is eccentric.

He showed no intimidation to Clementine, like all her servants did.

He wore a impenetrable mask that shielded his true emotions. But despite his eerie abandon, Clementine somehow saw past the mask. He was not so ruthless as he seems to appear. There was a profound feeling of uncertainty, however, when she first saw him. There is, however, something else that ran deeper in him. Disguised with the illusion of unkindness.

Esme's fever was at its height that morning. Sleep was the only thing that kept her mind and body at ease. But somehow, it seemed, that her illness was impervious to the medicine he had prescribed.

He and Clementine were in the sitting room. There was a heavy silence between them; the warm hearth from the fireplace provided some sense of a cheerful warmth.

He sat across from her. His fingers were outlining the floral detail of the brocade armrest. Lightly tugging the threaded pattern.

The silence was far too much for Esme's grandmother.

She took a sip of tea, raising the porcelain cup to her lips. The liquid was already long cold.

"I did not know you purchased Mr. Burckleworth's property next door, Doctor." She said finally, setting down the cup back to its saucer with a soft clink.

"Yes. He was an old acquaintance of my father. I was not informed of his plans of selling it till I returned to London last month."

"You just only returned to London?" Clementine asked as she looked at him. His large figure encased in his seat, a shadow creasing his profile.

"Yes." He replied without glancing at her.

"Where have you been living?"

"Scotland, before that Ireland."

"That's quite far Dr. Cullen." She replied soundly.

"Extremely. But once you are living in such places, it feels like a different time entirely. A world away from a world. When I returned to London, I had no permanent address till Mr. Burckleworth had reached me by telegram, and notified me of his plans." He replied solemnly.

The small talk had no effect on Clementine. It neither calmed her, nor distracted her. The real question was not spoken.

Carlisle sat there and observed the elder lady in front of him. She was old, that much was obvious. The details of time were clearly apparent in her form. Yet if she knew his real age, she'd be flabbergasted. He was a full grown man, yet his youth could not betray the secret it held.

He could see Clementine facing an internal battle within. He knew long before she had spoken what the question was.

"She's not going to die." He said to her, his eyes looking at her fully now.

The tension in her body lightened for a moment.

"There is something else, isn't there Doctor?" She responded, knowing only half the battle was won.

"She has to be very weak, before she could become strong. Its only a matter of time."

"Is there anything else you could give her?" She whispered, feeling powerless. She hated that feeling.

"I already have." He said carefully.

"Oh. Is there by any chance you can tell me of it? Is it anything like the anybi-antibo-"

"I'm afraid its quite different from the antibiotics. And I must apologize in advance, for I cannot reveal any of its specifications. Not many Doctors support it. Its a matter of confidentiality, madam."

"I understand. But it will work?" She said hopefully.

"If her system responds well to it. I will have to monitor her through the night, with your permission." He says with a noncommittal tone, shifting slightly in his seat.

"Of course," She looked at him a moment, his glacial stare meeting hers, "Thank you. Thank you Doctor."

Clementine could not fathom why, but her instinct felt inclined to trust him. This stranger. It was completely unethical, but could not be deterred. But still she unconsciously she felt very wary of him.

Esme barely ate through the day. A few bites of bread, then a scarce sips of soup. It was not enough, but it will have to suffice.

The night fell quicker than expected, the storm clouds were at bay. But they still clung to the sky like formidable floating mountains.

It was thirty minutes past twelve.

The whole house had gone into slumber. Clementine remained vigilant till eleven, after that, her old eyes could take no more. She bid the Doctor goodnight, and told him to awaken her if there were any changes.

The night was damp and dreary. The flames from the fireplace in Esme's room was dying down. A cackle could be heard once every few moments.

He was the only one awake at her bedside. He was sitting in front of her in the dim light. His right hand held a golden pocket watch, whilst the other was pressed to a pulse in her wrist. He had to do this every twenty minutes.

He closed the pocket watch and returned it to his pocket, her vital signs were stable. She was reacting well so far. No unpleasant sideffects.

Esme felt herself floating nearer, and nearer to consciousness an hour later. Something had awaken her. She stirred beneath the sheets in her sleep. She could not shake the feeling of someone watching her. Her eyes slowly opened, nothing but the darkness in front of her. She exhaled slowly.

She sensed a slow movement beside her.

"Who's there?" She whispered. Her brows furrowing deeply at the shapeless dark.

He remained silent for a very long time. "No one." Was his reply.

"Who are you?" Said the little girl.

"A voice in your dream, perhaps."

"I can't see dreams." She said. Turning her head to the direction of the voice. Her hands elevating, trying to reach for the figure who spoke to her.

She felt strong fingers touching hers.

She felt a small frission of shock go through her. She examined the hand with her sense of touch. It was definitely masculine, crude, and far larger than hers.

Carlisle watched as the child touched his open hand. Her eyes blinking, staring into empty space. If there was any emotion he had felt, it would be beneath his skin, and ran far deeper into the wellspring of his being.

"Who are you?" She asked once more, holding his thumb with all five of her tiny fingers. He had a strange effect on the child.

"You're grandmother sent for me. You've been ill." He replied quietly. He eyed at her curiously. He knew she could not see him, and so observed her closely. Like an eagle to a young doe. The majority of his patients were adults. He disliked handling children, unless there was no other option available. Yet this certainly was something different.

"Am I going to die?" She whispered to him once more.

"No."

He watched as her lids slowly started to droop. "Why are you here?" She whispered hazily before giving in to sleep. For a moment it seemed as if she could see him, in a way. But perhaps it was the trick of the light. He sat there as the child fell asleep again, her little fingers clasping his thumb.

He did not answer her.