Tristan had just closed his practice for the morning and was making his way upstairs for a hurried lunch before he’d be on the train to Danby. He had started servicing the nearby villages, renting a backroom for a weekly afternoon here and there to serve as makeshift doctor’s office. These scattered days, the long journeys, and the long hours were exhausting, but necessary. He had rented this place on Flowergate with his hopes set entirely too high. Now he was struggling to pay the rent and wondering how much it would cost to move to the edge of town and to what extent that location would affect his already limited clientele.

His foot had just hit the top step when he heard a rather firm rap on the door. He turned and went back downstairs. Ever since he had learned of Pippa’s potential murderer stalker, she was not allowed to answer the door. It was embarrassing to have to go himself – as if he couldn’t afford a maid! (Increasingly, he really couldn’t.) But this time he could hear by the determination in that knock that it was someone who needed a doctor.

There was no denying that a large portion of his job satisfaction lay in being that person people turned to in their hour of need.

He opened the door and saw the man. His eyes trailed to the cab behind him. “Dr. Wells,” he quickly announced to let the man know he had found the right person. “Can I help you?”