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‘I don’t think they’re very well future-proofed, and I don’t think you’ve really stopped to actually consider what Sylvie’s needs currently are, or what they’ll be in the future. Which is why I think she should consider whether it’s really worth the time or money it would take to build.’

‘So you’re doubting my professional skills?’

‘I don’t see why that’s so surprising.’ She slapped her hand down over the irritating pen – anything to stop it from tapping. ‘You seem happy to doubt mine. How Sylvie – and people like her – move, and how their needs change and increase in the future is my expertise and specialism. I’m here to help Sylvie get moving again, and to keep moving and stay as independent as possible for as long as possible. And I’m saying these designs don’t support that.’

‘And I’m telling you they do. And, more than that, they’re what she wants.’

Amrita glared at Jamie. ‘And I’m telling you, you’re wrong.’

‘I don’t think I am.’

‘What you think doesn’t matter. Facts do. And in this case, the fact is that this design isn’t going to meet Sylvie’s needs. And frankly, if I don’t let strangled hospital funding or overworked, under-experienced junior doctors stop me advocating successfully for my patients, I’m certainly not going to let an architect with lofty ideas tell me I don’t know what I’m doing, or get in the way of helping my patients.’ She glared at him, her finest don’t-mess-with-me look that she’d learned from the ward sister who terrified so many students.

‘So, you are trying to tell me how to do my job.’ He chuckled, amusement in his eyes as they took on a more blueish hue, apparently mocking her. ‘I’m pretty good at this, you know. Award-winning, actually.’

‘You mentioned. It didn’t impress me the first time either.’ She had to make a conscious effort to not roll her eyes as she stood. ‘Because whatever awards you might have won, they certainly weren’t for this sort of design. Perhaps the category was aesthetic ableism? Because they’re certainly not suitable for anyone like your supposed client.’

* * *

Jamie’s irritation loosened his tongue. ‘Aesthetic ableism? Was that a phrase you learned in all your years training in design, or is that what they teach physios to say instead of admitting that you don’t understand architecture?’ He folded his arms over his chest. ‘Believe it or not, I actually know what I’m doing here. It’s my job to know. And I’m very good at my job. I wouldn’t barge into your hospital and rearrange your treatment plans because I once watched a few medical dramas. But, by all means, throw around a few buzzwords if it makes you feel a bit more authoritative!’

‘I wasn’t trying to tell you how to do your job,’ she snapped back. ‘I was trying to tell you how my patient moves. What her future will look like. And I’d prefer that future to not have to include me picking her up off the floor because of your “pretty” but completely impractical, inaccessible and – frankly – inept designs. You’re right that I’m not trained in design, but I am the person who has spent hours working with Sylvie to understand how she moves, stands, turns, sits, walks and the things that will make her fall. And I am one of the team of experts supporting her long-term condition management. So, when I tell you these designs will fail her, it’s not a design opinion. It’s a clinical observation based on my years of experience!’

‘Amrita…’ Sylvie tried to interrupt.

‘I’m sorry, Sylvie. I know you want a beautiful home, and you deserve one, but you need one that works for you too. And this’ – she stabbed a finger against the sketches, sending a shockwave through Jamie – ‘isn’t that. At best, it’s my professional opinion you’d be wasting your money long-term and would need to make a lot of adaptations – probably costly ones – in the not-too-distant future. At worst, you could actually damage your recovery trying to live there.’

Jamie’s magic exploded again, fizzing through his veins and choking his tongue. He fought it, trying to find his voice, but shock silenced him. This wasn’t how his magic usually behaved – or how it ever had. What the hell was going on? He tried to shake off the feeling so he could focus and defend his work, but it didn’t matter – Amrita was already ignoring him and had turned to Sylvie, who was aghast.

* * *

‘I’m sorry, but I need to leave. Let me know how you get on with the splints, and I’ll see you Wednesday for your next appointment. But, in the meantime, if you value the work we’re doing together, I strongly advise you not to commit any resources to these.’ Amrita tapped the designs on the table. ‘They’re about as useful as a paper umbrella in a monsoon.’

‘You’re sure you can’t stay? What about the buns?’

‘Thank you, but no. Suddenly I’ve lost my appetite.’ She waved off Mia’s concern in the hallway as she let herself out, making sure not to slam the door even though she was tempted. It wasn’t Sylvie’s fault Jamie had been so rude, though she was surprised Mia considered someone so arrogant to be a good friend.

She was still shaking her head at the pretty-but-pointless designs and the idiot who was more interested in polishing his own ego and awards than actually designing something that could help Sylvie keep her independence a bit longer as she climbed into her car.

‘What an arse.’

* * *

A week later Jamie sat at his desk, staring at the designs now taking up most of his office. He’d pinned them to the walls, and spread the later drafts across the floor, desk and drafting board. He knew other people used computers and tablets for design work, but he needed the paper, ink and paint. Computers didn’t work for him: the software glitched and became unusable, or his magic – and the designs – didn’t flow as well. Magic and modern technology often refused to work well together, and it had turned into one of those weird Hudsbury things that had followed him wherever he travelled or worked.

But whether on a screen, sketched in pencil and ink, or in watercolour concepts, the designs he’d created for Sylvie were gorgeous – some of his best work. He’d worked on them some more, as he said he would, and shown them to Sylvie again once he’d drawn them up properly, and she’d been excited. He had too.

But there was something about the designs he just didn’t love as much as he’d wanted to: something that annoyed him, although he didn’t fully know what it was or why. Something was just… off. An annoying splinter that dug into his magic. But it was definitely nothing to do with anything Amrita had said. Definitely not.

He’d tried to figure it out – staring at the designs until his head ached – but he couldn’t see it. He even tried the almost unthinkable: erasing lines in the hope that a clearer sheet would somehow clear the fog in his mind too, but it didn’t help. And every time he looked away, the lines redrew themselves in thicker, deeper marks that were harder to erase.

Irritated, he stomped off to make himself a drink and hoped that would clear his thoughts. When he got back to his desk, he was greeted by a grey cat sitting in the middle of his designs, calmly washing her paws.

‘What are you doing here, Mist? Shouldn’t you be at the shop with Ophelia?’

‘Mweep-mwow.’

‘You know I can’t hear you like Ophelia and Aiden do.’