It seemed wrong to Kitty that Walter should have lived. An ending rewritten, tinging her initial relief with a wicked sense of disappointment and resignation, mixed with not a little resentment that he should suddenly draw breath and reinsert himself into a world that had reordered itself to exclude him. For those few minutes -so horrifying but so full of promise- in which she had believed herself a widow, her mind had jumped ahead to the future; to the responibilities of motherhood mixed with the freedom of a single woman. For surely no one could fault her for being unmarried, now, when she had done her duties as wife and mother; the former having come to such a tragic end.

The surgeon pronounced Walter to be much stronger than he'd originally thought, having clearly overworked and underfed himself. "As if he found something to live for," the man said with a knowing smile at Kitty.

When Waddington translated, she returned the expression faintly; out of convention more than any real desire to smile.

The idea came to her that perhaps her plea for forgiveness had been misinterpreted by her husband. Perhaps he hadn't realized she'd wanted to ease his way into death, but thought instead that she wanted to make another go of it. Certainly at that moment she'd wished for nothing more, but it was no more than the vain wish of one who knew that there'd be no chance to make amends and comforted themselves with the knowledge that they would have tried if they could. It was irritatingly possible that Walter had, instead, taken her words at face value and found some hidden reserve to call upon. Now she would be forced to nurse him and -once more- put her own needs and wants second to his own.

With these bitter thoughts she glanced at her husband and what she saw there gave her more reason than ever to pity him. He'd turned his head to watch her and his eyes held no less disappointment and resignation than her own, and she thought there was something apologetic in the set of his eyebrows. As if he recognized the inconvenience of living and wished to make up for it. And in that flash of her pity, there was irritation, as well, that he should inflict such guilt upon her without intending. A hopeless, helpless, pitiful creature she must now care for as if he were a lost puppy left on her doorstep.

Waddington came to her in her shocked silence, putting an arm about her shoulders. "Come, Mrs Fane. You've had quite the turn, poor dear. I'll take you home for now."

Kitty nodded and let herself be steered towards the door, stopping there to turn back. "When will you release him," she asked the surgeon.

Waddington translated and nodded at the man's reply. "Not for a few days," he told her, "Dr Fane is much too weak to be moved."

She nodded again and stepped out into pre-dawn air. For a few days, her life could be her own and she could come and go almost as she pleased before turning herself into a nursemaid.