Maggie was staring at her, waiting, her eyes full of hope.

  ‘Get me another cup of water,’ Hester said to her. ‘Please.’

  Maggie turned and went immediately. Finally there was something she could do to help.

  Hester leaned forward and pushed the sleeve up a little on Charlie’s thin arm. She took the skin between her finger and thumb. It lifted away as if there were no flesh over the bone. At least she knew something to start with. ‘When did you last go to a bathroom to pee?’ she asked.

  He seemed a little embarrassed. ‘Long time ago.’

  ‘Can you let me look inside your mouth? Please?’ He dropped his jaw obediently. She bent and peered inside. His skin was pale and almost dry, even his tongue. Now she knew at least one thing seriously wrong with him. Dehydration bad enough could kill, especially a child as slight as he was. Water might not be all he needed, but it might save him long enough for something further.

  Maggie came back, running so quickly she almost tripped, but the glass she carried was full to the brim.

  Hester smiled at her, and very gently lifted Charlie up again so he was cradled in her arms and his head was nearly upright. He opened his eyes, but it was Maggie he looked at. He smiled at her hazily, and then seemed to drift off again.

  Hester put the glass to his lips. ‘Drink a little more, Charlie,’ she urged him. ‘Just a sip.’

  For several moments he did not move, then as he tipped the glass very slightly he took a mouthful. He swallowed it and coughed. After a few seconds he took another.

  Maggie was staring at Hester as if she were seeing a miracle. Hester ached with grief for her because this small act was almost certainly useless, but she could not bear to tell her so. Maggie’s eyes were bright and she was so intent on Charlie she was hardly remembering to breathe.

  It took half an hour, but sip by sip, Charlie drank the whole glassful. Hester felt a sense of triumph as if she had climbed a mountain. She laid Charlie back in the bed and pulled the blanket up over him again. He lay still, as if the effort had exhausted him. Almost straight away he was asleep.

  Maggie’s smile was so wide it must have hurt her cheeks. She was too full of emotion to speak. She knew it was only the beginning.

  Hester stayed with them. Slowly she went around the rest of the ward, checking on each child. There were another six. They were tired and thin, yet still far better than Charlie. Even Mike, the younger brother, was lying quietly and did not do more than stir and turn over when she touched his brow and then his arm. He looked more like three than four, but she knew that poor or sick children were often small for their ages.

  An hour later she woke Charlie and, sip by sip, gave him another glass of water. Maggie helped. She refused to go back to her own bed, even though she was swaying on her feet with exhaustion. She agreed to sit down beside Hester, then at last, somewhere near dawn, she crumpled up and slid on to her lap, sound asleep.

  About an hour later Hester laid Maggie gently into her own bed, and then went back to her own ward to tell them where she was and why. She retraced her steps carefully to find the children’s ward again, but before going in she looked for the nurse who should have been on duty there.

  She tried all the nearby storerooms and cupboards, rooms with sinks, taps, and places for laundry and rubbish, but there was no sign of her. Either she had not come in in the first place, or she had been and gone again almost straight away. Had she been ill, lazy, or on some emergency of her own? Or simply an assignation? It wouldn’t be unheard of.

  Unhappy and a little worried, Hester went back to the children’s ward. She looked carefully at each of them, then, satisfied for the time being, she slept on and off for what was left of the night.

  By morning Charlie was sitting up and definitely feeling better. His eyes were still hollow but his skin was less papery, and he could take a cup of water in his hands and drink it himself.

  Maggie was elated. She refused to listen to Hester’s warning that this was only a temporary respite. She stared at Hester solemn-eyed and said that she understood, but her joy burned in her like a flame and Hester’s words meant nothing. Charlie was not dying now, and that was all that mattered. Even Mike, awake and standing beside Maggie, clinging on to her hand, believed her, and regarded Hester as if she were a bright angel.

  Hester stopped her struggle with reality and let them enjoy the idea of hope, for however long it might last.

  It was still very early. The sky was paling at last and she needed to return to the ward where she was on duty.

  ‘Let Charlie sleep,’ she told Maggie. ‘And keep on giving him water when he’ll take it, but don’t waken him specially. And don’t forget to drink yourself. If he’ll take breakfast, then help him, but don’t insist. And all the rest of you must eat as well. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ Maggie said earnestly. ‘You’ll come back, won’t yer?’ Now there was fear back in her eyes again.

  ‘Of course,’ Hester promised, but wondered how she was going to keep to it. As soon as Dr Magnus arrived she must see him. That meant staying longer than she had meant to, but her own family would simply have to understand.

  Nurse O’Neill met her the moment she was through the door of her own ward. She was an imposing woman, young and quite handsome in an individual way. Now she was angry and made no attempt to conceal it.

  ‘What on earth are you thinking of?’ she demanded, hands on her hips. Her fairish hair was coming out of its pins and she looked exhausted. Her sleeves were rolled up crookedly and there were stains of blood and spilled water over her white apron front. ‘There’s only been me and Mary Ann here! They don’t pay you to sneak off and find somewhere to go to sleep! I don’t care what you did all day; you’re meant to be here and on duty all night, just like the rest of us.’

  Hester’s heart sank. She knew what was the matter with Sherryl O’Neill. She expected to lose patients – this was a ward of desperately ill men – but she still could not bear it. Each death was a defeat and she took it personally.

  ‘We lost Hodgkins,’ Hester said quietly, assuming the worst. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘No we didn’t!’ Sherryl blinked furiously but the tears ran down her cheeks anyway. ‘He’s still alive. God knows how. No thanks to you.’

  Hester waited, confused.

  ‘Wilton,’ Sherryl filled in the silence. ‘He took a sudden turn for the worse and there was nothing I could do. You should have been here!’ Again the accusation was harsh.

  Hester understood. Unexpected loss cut especially deep. It made you realise all over again how little control you had. Victory could turn to defeat in an instant. They had all felt certain that Wilton was recovering.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, dreading the answer.

  Sherryl’s voice was harsh, as if her throat were so tight she could barely force the words out.

  ‘What didn’t? He was in awful pain, first in his back, then down his sides, and tops of his legs. He was chilling one minute and feverish the next. His urine was full of blood.’ She stared at Hester as if she were still desperate for some kind of help.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ Sherryl went on. ‘He was in agony worse than his wounds, and terrified. I was useless. He was dying and I couldn’t think of anything to do for him. He was faint. Some parts of him went absolutely white, as if there were no blood inside him. Others were dark red and, strong man as he was, he wept with the pain of it. God in heaven, that’s not a way for anybody to die!’ Now the tears ran unashamedly down her cheeks. ‘Why the hell weren’t you there?’ she said furiously.

  Hester knew this was anger at helplessness, at pain, and death. They were the tears of exhaustion, and the need not to be alone.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Hester said quietly. ‘I was with another patient. A child. I told Mary Ann.’

  ‘She’s no damn use!’ Sherryl said desperately. ‘She thought Wilton was going to live, after Dr Rand took him away for treatment yesterday. He . . . he was so full of hope when he came back.’ She stopped abruptly, unable to keep her self-control any longer.

  ‘Did you know there was a children’s ward here?’ Hester asked, wondering even as she spoke if she was wise to mention it.

  Sherryl’s eyes widened. ‘What are you talking about? Where? There are no children here. It’s all soldiers and sailors.’ Disbelief was heavy in her face.

  ‘No it isn’t,’ Hester contradicted her. ‘I found a child in one of the corridors, looking for help. She was about six, and her brother was in crisis. I went with her. That’s where I was.’

  Sherryl’s eyes widened again.

  ‘We got him through the night, but I don’t know what good it will do. He was very weak.’

  ‘A child too?’ Sherryl asked.

  ‘About seven,’ Hester replied. ‘I couldn’t leave her alone to watch him die . . .’

  Indecision flickered in Sherryl’s face, and then she chose to believe. ‘You couldn’t have done anything here anyway,’ she conceded, turning away after a moment to master her feelings, and wipe her face with the corner of her apron.

  Hester was uncertain what to say. She really did understand the sense of helplessness, the going over and over every step, every decision, all the possibilities that could have been tried, and then the agony of watching such a painful, horrible death. Everyone who cared questioned themselves.

  Sherryl O’Neill was a difficult person to get to know. Their first real conversation had been when Hester asked about her unusual name, one she had not heard before, and Sherryl had told her of its origins in France. Her parents had been touring the country and had never forgotten its beauty. When their daughter was born the intended name of ‘Rose’ had been replaced with a version of the French word for ‘dear’ or ‘beloved’, and she had been trying to live up to it ever since.

  Hester, who had always felt herself to look rather ordinary, understood exactly. It had not started a friendship, but at least rather more than simply an acquaintance.

  As soon as Hester knew that Dr Magnus Rand was due in the hospital, and before he could begin any rounds, she went to tell him about Charlie. She found him in his office towards the front of the building. It was an imposing room with an oak desk and a couple of other tables with books, papers and instruments spread out, as if there were always a new work in progress.

  Two of the walls were lined with shelves, the books packed in. At a glance they seemed at random. There were no obvious sets of volumes. Once she had had the chance to read the titles and she was impressed with the breadth and variety of his interest, but always in some form of medicine. There were studies dating from the ancient Greeks, through the developing knowledge of the Arabs and Jews, and such giants as Maimonides. Then the herbalists of the Middle Ages, to the modern histories of new discoveries in anatomy and physiology. Harvey, who had discovered the circulation of the blood, was clearly Dr Rand’s greatest hero.

  He was a mild-seeming man, several years younger than his brother, Hamilton, but his features were not dissimilar, perhaps a little blunter. Unlike Hamilton, his fairish hair was thick and always seemed to have escaped his control.

  He looked up as Hester knocked lightly on the open door.

  ‘Ah, come in, Mrs Monk.’ His expression appeared mild but his blue eyes were sharp with interest. ‘How went the night?’

  She stood in front of the desk. Only then did she realise that Hamilton Rand was in the room also. He was visibly the elder of the two. His face was leaner and more deeply lined, his hair thinner. It was difficult to tell what colour his eyes were, but impossible to miss the acute intelligence in them. Now he watched her silently. She was not a social acquaintance so he did not feel it necessary to acknowledge her.

  There was no escape. Hester could feel the colour burn up her face. She did not have any doubt that she had done the right thing, but she was by no means certain that either man would see it that way. They would have heard of Wilton’s death. To lose a patient was always a kind of failure, and they had not expected this one.

  She told them exactly what her own notes had said, until the time she had left to walk along the corridor to fetch more paper for recording patients’ progress.

  ‘Wilton was restless.’ Magnus affirmed. ‘What then?’

  ‘What time was he restless, Mrs Monk?’ Hamilton interrupted without looking at his brother. ‘Be precise, if you please.’

  ‘Ten minutes past midnight he got tangled in the sheet and started to struggle,’ Hester replied. She was used to his manner. He looked for reason in the details and she understood that. He was a man of penetrating intelligence and accustomed to dealing with those who generalised where he required exactness.

  ‘Awake, Mrs Monk? Were his eyes open? Did he focus?’

  ‘His eyes were open but he seemed to focus only now and then. I would say less than half the time,’ she replied.

  ‘What did you do for him?’ Magnus asked, taking over control of the questions again, but he looked to his brother as he did so, and observed Hamilton’s brief nod before he continued. ‘And how did he respond?’

  ‘I disentangled him so he would be less distressed,’ Hester replied. ‘Then I bathed him in cool water to reduce his fever. At first he responded well. He became calmer and spoke quite lucidly for several minutes, perhaps almost ten. He went back to sleep, and I went to see the other patients.’

  ‘Then what?’ Hamilton demanded, moving forward a step or two.

  ‘I did much the same for another patient, Latimer. He—’

  Hamilton waved a hand sharply. ‘He is of no concern in this issue, Mrs Monk. Keep your mind on the subject, if you please . . .’

  ‘You asked her where she went, Hamilton,’ Magnus pointed out.

  Hester knew he intended it kindly, and yet she found his need to defend her faintly patronising. Or was it that Magnus was so used to his elder brother’s manner that he tried to offset it simply out of habit?

  Hamilton shrugged irritably. ‘I know what I said, Magnus. The woman can take care of herself. For heaven’s sake, come to the point. Wilton could have lived!’ He swivelled back to Hester. His eyes were fixed on hers intently. ‘How did he die? Details, woman!’

  Hester drew in her breath. ‘I don’t know, sir. You will have to ask Miss O’Neill. When I—’

  ‘What?’ Hamilton demanded, the colour rising up his cheeks. ‘Where the devil were you? I’m not paying you to—’

  Magnus put out his hand and gripped his brother’s arm. Hester could see his knuckles white and the wrinkles in the sleeve of his suit where he pulled it out of shape. ‘Let her tell us, Hamilton. The woman must answer the call of her own nature now and then.’

  Hester felt herself blushing, which was absurd.

  Hamilton shook off the offending hand, and Magnus let go. He had made his protest.

  ‘Well?’ Hamilton demanded, staring at Hester as if he could make the acuteness of his vision bore into her head.

  Hester stood a little straighter. She did not avert her eyes. ‘When I was returning along the corridor I encountered a small girl, perhaps six or seven years old. She was in extreme distress and said that her brother was dying.’

  ‘What?’ Magnus turned to Hamilton, his expression filled with alarm.

  Hamilton ignored him, not moving his eyes from Hester’s.

  ‘And what did you do, Mrs Monk?’ he said, enunciating each word deliberately.

  ‘I went with her to see what I could do to help,’ Hester replied. ‘It could have been true. As it turns out, I believe it was . . .’

  Magnus was ashen. He half rose in his seat.

  Hamilton took a deep breath. His voice grated between his teeth. ‘What about the nurse, Mrs . . . what’s her name? Mrs Gilmore?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hester replied. ‘When I had time I looked for her. I never found her.’

  Hamilton swore savagely.

  ‘I have come precisely to tell you about this, Mr Rand,’ she answered him. ‘I discussed Wilton first because Charlie did not die.’

  ‘The boy is still alive?’ Magnus asked hurriedly.

  ‘Yes, Dr Rand. He is weak, but I think improving.’

  Hamilton leaned forward. ‘What did you do for him? Tell me precisely what you did, and how he responded.’

  Hester’s mind flashed back to her time as an army nurse in the Crimea. She had heard generals give orders to soldiers in just such a tone of voice. Sometimes it had sent them to their deaths. She forced it from her mind. Hamilton Rand would remember every word she said, or omitted to say.

  ‘I asked the girl, Maggie, what she knew of his illness—’ she began.

  ‘And what did she tell you?’ Hamilton snapped, cutting across her.

  ‘Very little, other than that you used what sounded from her description to be a syringe.’

  ‘Go on! Go on!’

  ‘I touched Charlie,’ she replied, refusing to be hurried. Charlie was what mattered, and the other children, not what Hamilton Rand thought of her. ‘He was lying still, breathing shallowly and did not appear to be aware of us. I pinched his skin, to see if it came away from his flesh easily, in order to judge if he was lacking moisture. He had vomited recently and had not urinated for a time. He was very seriously lacking moisture. I sent the girl for water. I propped Charlie up and gave him a few sips as often as he would take them. It was four glasses in all, by morning.’ She did not look away from him but met his eyes steadily. Now she was not alarmed, only angry that he should have let it come to this point.

  Hamilton let out his breath slowly, pursing his lips. He did not look at his brother.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said almost without expression. ‘You showed some initiative.’ At last he looked at Magnus. ‘That explains her absence satisfactorily.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ Magnus said impatiently. ‘Thank you, Mrs Monk. We are obliged to you. We shall take care of the matter now, and get a full report on poor Wilton from Miss O’Neill. We had great hopes that we could save him.’ He turned to his brother. ‘Hamilton, do you think—’