October, 1893 — Hogsmeade Hospital

Edmund Whitby was dying. It was only a matter of time. Calvin wasn't a pathologist and hadn't been assigned to Mr. Whitby at any point since he'd been admitted to the hospital, but he'd gotten a good look at his patient record all the same and the facts seemed clear enough to him. He wasn't sure whether the family had realized it yet, or whether Mr. Whitby himself had. He wasn't sure if Saffron knew it or if she was in denial. It was quite a natural thing to be in denial about. Losing a parent was difficult — (he imagined; he'd never done it) — they had already lost their mother. It would be entirely understandable if she wanted to stave off the realization. And the healers were probably lying to them, he assumed; they usually did when things were like this, as a softening attempt. That was one of the reasons Calvin had gravitated towards Creature-Induced Injuries; there was rarely a need for dancing around the facts. If someone was going to die from a creature-induced injury, everyone probably already knew it. There was no reason to be subtle in relaying the prognosis.

His schedule was erratic, so he hadn't seen her every time she'd come in, but her work schedule was predictable. There was a consistent window of time where Saffron might be visiting her father. She didn't always come to the tea room in the hospital's central waiting area, but sometimes she did, so he'd started checking it every afternoon to see that it was adequately supplied for her. A full tin of chamomile tea, clean spoons, a jar of honey he'd picked up at the Hogsmeade street market. Chamomile wasn't the only tea she drank, but it was the better sort for the mood she was in these days. He'd been watching her come in and out, with her shoulders tense and a look on her face as though she was always on the verge of a larger emotion. He suspected she wasn't sleeping well. She needed a calming tea. The first time he'd spotted her in the tea room after a visit with her father she'd made herself a black tea, and he hadn't thought that was a good idea. He'd emptied that tin out before she could visit again.

He made the same round today, stocking the tea room in a quiet moment where no one would ask what he was doing. He had just gotten off of his shift, which meant he probably had to go home; there were few places he could linger for long without arousing suspicion. The tea room was one of them... and he might sit here for twenty minutes or more without anyone wondering what he was doing, he considered. If they even noticed him, he could easily explain it by claiming he was tired, or that he'd made a cup of tea and lost track of time. He had a book in his work bag. That was as good an alibi as anything. He went to fetch it and then made himself tea and settled in towards the back of the room, watching for Saffron.

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