“Mallory,” he murmurs. “Help me, please.”
I walk over to the girl, and her gaze swings gratefully my way. “Dr. Gray wonders whether you have been able to find any others. He understands that might not be possible, but I believe he is saying that if you want more, we could get them for you.”
Her shoulders sag in what seems like relief, as if she’d thought he was calling her out for only reading the first case. I don’t know whether Gray was honestly offering to get her more or just trying to make conversation, but I know he’d offer if he thought of it. We certainly have plenty of copies—at least of the current version, written by Jack.
“There are more?” she whispers to me, as if Gray might overhear.
“One, two . . .” I purse my lips. “Four cases in total, I believe. They are a little different. There is a new writer, and I do not faint nearly as often.”
“That is all right,” she says solemnly. “Not everyone can faint. I have tried, and I hurt my arm when I fell, because he”—a glare toward the boy—“did not catch me.”
“That is the problem with fainting. It is not like in the books, where someone is always there to catch you, and it hurts to fall on the ground.”
Another solemn nod. “It does.” She plucks at a fresh hole in her sleeve, unraveling the thread, suddenly seeming shy.
“My name is Miss Mallory,” I say. “And what can I call you?”
“Dorrit.” She pauses. “Not Dorothy or Doris. Dorrit. It is an odd name, I know.”
I smile. “I know a girl with that name in a book.”
Another solemn nod. “Her name is Amy. Amy Dorrit, but my mama loves the book and gave me the name.”
“It is a fine name.”
“I think so,” she says, her voice softer, “though sometimes the children make fun of me for having a strange one. Mama says it is unique.”
I smile. “Your mother is right.”
“She was a governess.” Another pause. “She’s not now, but she still reads when she has time. She likes this story.” She lifts the book. “She says she wishes you had more to do than look pretty, though.” Her nose scrunches. “I do not know what she means. I think it must be very fine to look so pretty.”
I laugh. “It is fine, though I had nothing to do with it. This is the way I was made.” True enough. “I think your mother will like the new stories better. They show how much I do for Dr. Gray. Now, do you think you can come over near him and tell us about Bobby?”
Her gaze returns to Gray, and she whispers, “He is a very fine gentleman.”
“He is.”
“My . . . my mother says I must be careful with fine gentlemen, especially if they are kind to me.”
“Oh.” I inhale. “Well, your mother is correct. But you know Annie, and she is here, and I am also here, and I can promise you that if Dr. Gray acts kind, it is because he is kind. If he has questions, though, you can answer to me. Is that all right?”
She nods, and I lead her back.
“But he’s a doctor,” the youngest girl is saying to the boy when we return to the group. “He can look at your finger.”
The boy makes a fist, visibly wincing as if it hurts. “I don’t like doctors.”
Annie tuts. “This is a good doctor. From the New Town. A doctor for rich people.”
Gray hides most of a grimace. “Actually, I am?—”
I clear my throat to stop him before he feels obligated to admit he’s not a doctor. Well, he is, in the sense he has the degrees—both in surgery and medicine—but he isn’t licensed to practice.
“Dr. Gray is a fine doctor,” I say. “With degrees in . . .” Hmm. Probably shouldn’t mention surgery or the poor kid will envision losing that finger. “Medicine. He can take a look at your finger, and if he cannot help, he will know who can, but he will do nothing without your permission.”
It takes more coaxing before the boy opens his fist to reveal what likely started as a sliver but has become infected.
