I took a sip of sherry. It was warm, sweet, and little sickly, but I drank it down, conscious of Ruth watching me the whole time. Her gaze was obvious but not heavy or uncomfortable; in twenty years Ruth had never managed to make me feel uncomfortable. I didn’t speak again until I had finished the sherry and the glass was empty.
“It feels odd to be sitting here with a glass in my hand. I know you’re not in the habit of offering drinks to your patients.”
“You’re not my patient anymore. Just a friend—and by the look of you,” she added gently, “you need a friend right now.”
“Do I look that bad?”
“You do, I’m afraid. And it must be serious, or you wouldn’t come over uninvited like this. Certainly not at ten o’clock at night.”
“You’re right. I felt—I felt I had no choice.”
“What is it, Th
