Patience was a virtue, one Odira Potter did her best to employ. She tried to be patient with the children when they were being particularly obstinate, tried to be patient with herself and the little mistakes she made still about people—or the magical world—years after her return. Patience, the young widow thought, was a skill, one that she had finely honed a courtesy she extended indefinitely to those around her.

Baxter Keene was included in that number.

An avid reader, she had experienced enough Austen to recognize her feelings towards the healer as distinctly more than friendly, and more than suspect that the affection was mutual. He was, however, a decidedly busy man, and she, with plenty already to keep her occupied, was hardly about to push the matter and add stress to the hospital director’s shoulders.

It was, then, a surprise—wholly pleasant—to find Mr. Keene on the other side of the door, Odira having shouted to the cook-maid-housekeeper-sometimes feminine butler not to worry about fetching it. A broad smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she stepped aside to allow Mr. Keene entry into the house.

“Even on a Sunday, I confess it’s a shock to see you out of the hospital!” she teased. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Keene?”