June 7th, 1894 — Sprout Residence, London

Miss Sprout would not die.

That much he knew before he had even left his offices, for the summons noted she had already been given the antidote to whatever toxins she might have inhaled, entering the poison gardens without a respirator. The attitude, though, was one of better safe than sorry, an approach that Dr. Wystan Pomfrey agreed with wholeheartedly.

"A deep breath in, please, Miss Sprout," Stan directed quietly, both his beard and the angle of their respective bodies hiding the blush on his cheeks from view as he placed the end of his stethescope to her back. Until a week ago, this task would have been performed with professional detachment, but his fool sister had gone and suggested Philomena Sprout as a potential wife.

And he was in her bedroom.

And she was in her bed.

Thank Merlin for more than a decade of professionalism, and also the maid the Sprouts had installed in the corner by way of chaperone.

"And then, if you would," the physician added with just a hint of wry humour, "an explanation as to why you entered the poison garden without a respirator in the first place?"

Stan did not know Miss Sprout particularly well, but his work saw him visit the Evergardens with enough frequency to be deemed infrequent rather than once in a while. His impression of the witch, among other things, was that she was well-versed in the gardens and the plant species they held, and at least half as intelligent as she was welcoming. To take such a dangerous risk was at odds with the young lady he had met in the past, and with the young lady his sister's letter had described.

— Philomena Sprout —

  

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— graphics by the glorious mj! —

She knew she wouldn’t die, necessarily, which was all well and done. But she certainly would die from embarrassment. It was a beginner’s mistake, one that Philomena had made fun of herself to her brothers at one time — how someone could be so stupid as to run into the Poison Garden without a respirator.

Such a cruel world to deliver a blow to her ego twice in one day.

She had no choice but to tell her family what had happened immediately, and she was certain she would receive relentless teasing from her family when the gravity of the situation wore off. Which was how she ended up in her bed with an extremely handsome healer sitting on it with a stethoscope pressed against her back with little but the fabric of her nightgown to separate them. Though it was expected with nothing scandalous about the situation, especially given that Evangelina was in the room with them, Philomena was still mortified on all accounts. Her only saving grace was that the deep richness of her skin masked the blush that had surely made its way over a good half of her body by now.

His inquiry about the details of the incident, also expected, saw her fling her hands over her face, giving a quiet whine of embarrassment. “I…” She peeked through her fingers to the small lump of (currently) lavender fur deposited at the end of her bed. Tchaikovsky, the culprit in all of this, lay curled in a ball with only his ears visible behind his (slightly darker) purple tail. Said ears were pinned back as the creature gave a chirrup and curled into a tighter ball. It was a reaction that could only be interpreted as embarrassment. “My fox, Tchaikovsky, erm…ran into the garden.” Phie began from behind her hands. “He likes wisteria - the flower - and as a result, the wisteria plants on the gates like to taunt him.” She’d Seen it. The fox waiting at the gate, slipping through the iron bars and darting into the poison garden. It shouldn’t have been easy for him to get through, but somehow on that day, the odds were in his favor. “I thought I’d be alright with how long I was in there, it couldn’t have been very long, but…” Clearly it was long enough for the garden to do significant damage; enough for a healer to have been called.

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