He was as startled as she was. He had not been aware of having taken the decision until he announced it. But now, the announcement delivered, he realized that he had made up his mind that moment when, in the grounds that day, under the stark trees, speaking of Quirke’s daughter, Harkness had turned aside with that bitter, stricken look in his aquiline eye. Yes, it was then, Quirke understood now, that he had set out mentally on the journey back to something like feeling, to something like- what to call it?- like life. Brother Anselm was right; he had a long trek ahead of him.

Phoebe was saying something. “What?” he said, with a flash of irritation, trying not to scowl. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

She regarded him with that deprecating look, head tilted, chin down, one eyebrow arched, that she used to give him when she was little and still thought he was her sort-of uncle; his attention was a fluctuating quantity then, too. “April Latimer,” she said. Still he frowned, unenlightened. “I was saying,” she said, “she seems to be- gone away, or something.”

“Latimer,” he said, cautiously.

“Oh, Quirke!” Phoebe cried- it was what she called him, never Dad, Daddy, Father-”my friend April Latimer. She works at your hospital. She’s a juinior doctor.”

“Can’t place her.”

“Conor Latimer was her father, and her uncle is the Minister of Health.”

“Ah. One of those Latimers. She’s missing, you say?”

She stared at him, startled; she had not used the word missing, so why had he? What had he heard in her voice that had alerted him to what it was she feared? “No,” she said firmly, shaking her head, “not missing, but- she seems to be- she seems to have- left, without telling anyone. I haven’t heard a word from her in over a week.”

“A week?” he said, deliberately dismissive. “That’s not long.”

“Usually she phones every day, or every second day, at the least.” She made herself shrug, and sit back; she had the frightening conviction that the more plainly she allowed her concern to show the more likely it would be that something calamitous had happened to her friend. It made no sense, and yet she could not rid herself of the notion. She felt Quirke’s eye, it was like a doctor’s hand on her, searching for the infirm place, the diseased place, the place that pained.