As soon as she spoke, Tristan realized that she was not a local, not English even. Irish? No, the servants they could find back at home had been Irish, and he had treated a few Irish inmates. She didn't sound like it. American maybe? And it sounded refined.

He also noticed the growling of her stomach. A strange contrast.

"Thank you for being available so soon," he replied. Phillipa was hardly a name for a servant girl, he thought to himself.

He led her into the office. A window on the left looked out across a yard. Apart from a sofa and several cupboard with medical appliances, there was a wooden desk in the room, with files stacked on one side, and a tray with a teapot and cups in the middle. He gestured for her to sit on the side closest to do door. On the other side, behind the chair, there were shelves filled with thick books. But Tristan did not sit down immediately. He had brought down tea, but he now wished he had brought something to eat as well. He thought about going up to the apartment to get something, but then remembered he didn't have any cakes or anything else that would easily go with the tea, and he did not want to embarrass her by making it obvious that he had heard her growling stomach. And so he sat down, resolving that if he would reject her, he would at least give her some food.

"Where are you from, Miss?" he asked. "You don't sound like you're from here."