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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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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   Aldous Crouch

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"Careless," he chided not unkindly, satisfied that her lungs bore no evident damage. The earpieces of the stethescope he removed, but the contraption continued to hang about his neck, lest he need it again. Whether he spoke of the grandly-named fox or Miss Sprout, Stan could not have said. Both, maybe.

"Just as what we might consume with ease may be dangerous to some beasts, so too are some toxins to us naught but a mild annoyance to our furred companions." While his expertise was in people, not their pets, he was not so ignorant of the broad strokes of zoological medicine. "What would your Tchaikovsky have done had you condemned yourself to bed—or worse—in your valiant pursuit of him?"

Stan had moved so that the two were facing one another once again, though he busied his attentions with the contents of his medical bag, looking for... nothing, in particular. Perhaps another place to direct his eyes.

— Philomena Sprout —

  

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Tchai was fine, and so was she, however Phie couldn’t help but wilt slightly under the healer’s admonishment. But he had a fair point; the toxins in the garden might not be dangerous enough for animals, despite their lethal affects for humans.

She glanced at Dr. Pomfrey, heat in her cheeks as she nodded her agreement. “You are right,” she conceded, “Of course, you are right. I must be more vigilant and look into what plants in there might affect him.” Her ventures into zoological medicine were not as advanced as her knowledge of herbology. She glanced down at the purple fox again. “I’m so sorry if you got pulled away from a more dire case, Dr. Pomfrey,” She offered sheepishly.

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Though trained as a healer, Wystan Pomfrey, like his father before him, was not the hospital sort. While the Doctors Pomfrey did keep offices, theirs was a practice of house calls—cases like Miss Sprout's were, in Stan's humble estimation, far more meaningful than conferring with a wealthy man regarding his gout.

"I could not know for certain that you yourself were not dire," the physician offered reassuringly, eyes moving to meet her own again, "without investigating the matter, Miss Sprout. I am, however, very glad that it was not the case."

He might have added something about triaging and the like, that if a patient were actively dying he would have gone to them first, but Miss Sprout had no use for the ins and outs of medical practice, particularly in her present chastened (and recumbent) position.

Sina had described Miss Sprout as 'older, herbologist'—but that his sister had included the witch before him at all in her list of potentials said a great deal. 'Older' Miss Sprout might be, at least on paper, but she had a charming innocence and earnestness to her. She plainly cared about the wellbeing of others (the peculiarly named Tchaikovsky) and, despite today's lapse in judgement, must have a clever head upon her shoulders to be so well-versed in the realm of herbology. Were she not abed and Stan not tending to her in a professional capacity—were they at a ball, for example—Wystan might have asked Miss Sprout to dance.

"I will suggest," Stan added, "ideed, I will direct that you remain at home and without strain for a further two days, so that we might be certain any lingering ill-effects have dissipated."

— Philomena Sprout —

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   Philomena Sprout

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He had made several good points - Philomena could only nod sheepishly. How foolish he must think her! She’d made sure to study on the various species she had at the conservatory for this very purpose; to make sure that the animals and their environment blended as well as they could. But it appeared today, her knowledge and her wits had failed her in all aspects. “Two days?” Phie wanted to protest, her mouth dropping open in horror as she looked from the physician to the Evangeline in the corner. “But - but we’re receiving an important delivery tomorrow! Are you sure I can’t…” She trailed off, blinking, searching for any possible alternatives.

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"While I am happy to defer to you on matters of herbology, Miss Sprout, I must insist that of the two of us, I am the authority on all matters medical," Stan chided, though not unkindly. He did not expect Miss Sprout to like it—he was beginning to think his patient was similar to his sister, insofar as their dedication to their work—but he hoped she would heed him, for his own good.

"I am confident the rest of your 'we' can see to matters while you convalesce."

— Philomena Sprout —

  

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Dr. Pomfrey was quite right, of course. It was only correct to listen to him as the expert physician in this case, and Phie knew that if her step-mother were present, she certainly would have insisted upon Philomena’s compliance in these matters. The witch pressed her lips together to suppress any other protestations that might bubble up at any moment, and she nodded. “Yes, of course,” She relented softly, feeling her cheeks blaze once more in embarrassment at her outburst. “Forgive me, Dr. Pomfrey, I meant no disrespect.”

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