Page 125 of False God

I can’t remember if I’ve shagged her or not. Fig and I used to frequent this place whenever he came to visit over breaks and such, and plenty of those nights ended with us so pissed that we’d have to stumble home through the fields.

Can’t remember her name either.

“Been busy,” I tell her, giving my standard response to just about anything these days.

“I’m sure.” She reaches for the empty glass abandoned by my elbow, her fingers lightly brushing my forearm in a touch that could be considered unintentional, but I doubt is.

The glass gets added to the rack of dirty dishes, and then her attention is back on me. “You ready to order?”

I pick the first dish I see on the menu—wood-fried chicken—and after a moment of deliberation, I add on an ale. She serves it to me immediately. It’s a local one, brewed in town, the hoppy, fruity flavor one of the best things I’ve tasted in a while.

“Thanks …”

“Ada,” the bartender supplies with a smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

I nod, then take another sip.

A few minutes later, I hear my name.

I suppress a sigh, deciding I’ll be eating whatever Martha cooks from now on, before I turn around.

Dr. Evans’s wide smile creases the corners of his eyes. “Itisyou.”

“Dr. Evans.” I cough, some beer going down the wrong pipe. “What are you doing here?”

We’re not that far from London, but farther than most people in the city would venture for a dinner.

My former surgeon glances toward one of the back booths, where a red-haired woman is sitting. “Getaway with the missus. She’s a Galway girl, so London gets to be a little much for her at times.” His gaze returns to me, peering closely enough to notice the dark circles under my eyes and the day of scruff that’s grown. “How are you, Charles?”

I roll the pint glass in one palm. “All right. Knee is holding up.”

He glances down at the leg he operated on. Smiles again. “Glad to hear it.”

“I went to medical school.” I blurt the sentence, not really meaning to say it. “Started medical school,” I amend. “Only made it halfway through.”

Dr. Evans’s expression is sympathetic. I’m not sure if it’s because he heard about my father’s death and surmised that was the detour or because I sound as pathetic as I feel. “Halfway is still an accomplishment,” he tells me.

I shrug, not wanting to be rude and disagree with him outright. It doesn’t feel like much of one.

I miss that purpose. The ability to make a difference. Going to medical school wasn’t an impulsive decision I hadn’t thought through. It was an achievement I wanted, until my life fell apart.

“Are you considering finishing?” he asks me.

Am I?

I didn’t know I was, until he asked. If I knew Blythe and my grandmother and all the staff employed by the dukedom were taken care of, it would be a serious thought.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “Maybe.”

“It’s a hard profession, Charles. I haven’t met a single colleague who didn’t consider an alternate path.”

“It’s more than that. Leaving medical school … it didn’t have much to do with medical school.”

Dr. Evans nods. “I heard about your father’s passing. My condolences.”

“Thank you.” I hesitate before adding, “He died on the way into surgery.” Something the obituary didn’t mention. The collision had knocked him out cold, but he was still breathing when he arrived at the hospital.

The sympathy on his face shifts to understanding. “We can’t save everyone, Charles. But we wouldn’t saveanyoneif we didn’t try.”

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