SHE shouldn’t have asked that question.

Three minutes later Fern pulled up outside the home of her aunt and uncle and raced inside. She had two minutes to climb into some jeans, she told herself, but she got no further than the front door before she knew that the worst was here with a vengeance.

‘Fern…’

It was her uncle’s voice, hoarse with fear, and he was yelling from the upstairs bedroom.

Fern heard the fear.

Uncle Al wasn’t a man to express fear lightly.

Fern took the stairs three at a time, her bridal gown hoisted almost to her waist.

Dear God…No!

This wasn’t food poisoning. Fern’s medical training snapped into place as she stared down in horror at her aunt.

Fern’s aunt had collapsed. Maudie Rycroft was a limp, prostrate form huddled against the wall of the bedroom, her wonderful, flowery wedding hat tipped crazily down over her face. She wasn’t moving.

Fern sank to her knees, satin wedding gown flowing out around her, and searched frantically for a pulse.

Nothing. There was no pulse in Maud’s wrist. None in the carotid artery.

‘What happened?’ Fern was already clearing the airway, sliding her aunt down to lay her flat on the floor and give herself room to work. Maud’s crazy hat was tossed aside, unnoticed.

‘She was ill,’ Fern’s uncle stammered. ‘Like everyone else, she was sick as a dog. Maud was sick once outside the church and again just now.’