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Flapper chirruped from his cage in the corner, the gentle warble tugging at her heart with unexpected force. He had always sung at moments she needed comfort, as if sensing her melancholy. She crossed the room and placed his cage upon the dressing table, her fingers trembling slightly as she unlatched the wire door.

She reached inside with great care, lifting the little starling and settling him in the curve of her palm. His wing had healed, or so she hoped. With meticulous attention, she unwrapped the last of the bandages her father had taught her to make. The wing unfolded with tentative grace beneath her touch.

Tears sprang to her eyes.

She returned him to the cage, where he gave a questioning chirp and fluffed his feathers. He was ready to fly. Just like the buck in the next chamber.

For the briefest moment, she considered keeping him. A small selfish part of her wished for a memento of these strange and glorious days. But then came her father’s voice in memory, calm and unwavering. The needs of the patient outweigh any other consideration.

She gave a watery smile. “I know, Papa,” she whispered, brushing away the tears with the back of her hand. “But who shall mend the physician’s heart? Is there no remedy for me?”

The question hung unanswered in the hush of the morning.

She pinned up her hair with care, tucking away stray curls, and dressed with quiet resolve. Then, gathering the cage, she slipped from her room before she could change her mind. She could not allow Flapper to become a prisoner to her sorrow. She had not rescued him to break his spirit nor to make of him a symbol of loss.

The garden was hushed, dew still clinging to the grass, the hedges casting long shadows as the sun climbed over the rooftops. A perfect day for a bird to remember the sky.

Audrey set the cage down upon a weathered bench beside a clipped box hedge. She sat beside it, heart thudding, and reached inside. Flapper was trembling slightly as she cupped him once more.

“You will be all right,” she murmured. “You must be.”

She placed him on the cool grass, choosing the lawn rather than a higher perch to give him the safest start. He waddled forward with a few tentative chirps, blinking at the brightness of the world. He extended his wings, awkward and unsure, like a newborn lamb finding its feet for the first time.

Audrey held her breath, hands clasped tightly in her lap, watching the fragile miracle unfold.

Did he remember? Could he?

The bird cocked his head once, then again, bright eyes gleaming as he surveyed the garden. He turned toward Audrey, fixing her with a gaze that held her breath captive. For one suspended moment, she fancied he might return to her hand, choosing her over the sky.

But then his wings flared—strong, steady, free—and with a sudden burst, Flapper launched into the air. He climbed into the morning light, wheeling in a lopsided circle above the garden, and then vanished beyond the hedgerow, gone without a backward glance.

Audrey remained seated, staring after him long after he had disappeared from view. The tears that had lingered at the edges of her vision now spilled freely, trailing down her cheeks, across her jaw, and slipping into the collar of her gown. Each droplet was a benediction of sorrow, warm and quiet.

It was foolish, she supposed, to cry over a bird.

Yet his flight marked the close of something more than his convalescence. It was the end of her own brief, impossible dream. Her London adventure was over, and the fantasy that had played out within these borrowed walls must now give way to reality. Soon, she would return to Stirling and the quiet house that held only memories.

It was but a short walk across the street, yet it felt an ocean’s distance away.

Her time with Julius—bright, wondrous, and fleeting—would become a secret chapter in her life. A memory of a single perfect night where he had simply held her in the dark. A night she would replay in her mind when the loneliness closed in.

And he had not meant to keep it.

Audrey bowed her head, resting her folded hands in her lap. Her imagination painted an impossible future—days spent wandering the world beside him, evenings full of laughter and whispered confidences, a shared life filled with books, bold causes, warm beds. Children with unruly golden-brown hair and bright curious minds, dressed in eccentric ensembles chosen by the most unpredictable of fathers. Julius would make her smile when she wept and laugh when she was joyful. And she would guard his heart, his health, and his hope for as long as he let her.

She let the vision slip away, pressing her lips together to stifle the sob that threatened.

One day, perhaps, some fortunate lady would tame the wild, brilliant spirit housed within Lord Trafford’s worldly form. Audrey only wished it might have been her.

Julius was still grappling with the shape of his proposal to Audrey when he reached the back door leading to the alley, where he intended to await his friends. The coolness of the morning breeze seemed a poor match for the restlessness roiling in his chest. Audrey had been composed yet distant at breakfast, her smile brittle, her words careful. She was clearly steeling herself for their return to Lord Stirling’s home, where disapproval and whispered judgment surely awaited.

He had opened his mouth twice that morning to broach the subject of marriage, but each time, the words failed him. The truth was, he still did not know what exactly he intended to offer her.

A marriage in name only would, in many ways, serve Audrey’s ambitions. As a married woman, she would face fewer barriers to practicing her calling. Society, while rarely reasonable, often softened its censure toward married women, especially those of means and respectable alliances. It would shield her, give her space to continue as a healer.

And yet, the idea of sending her back to Stirling as his wife in title alone while he remained in London or roamed at leisure sat ill with him.

More than uneasily. It chafed.