“What is it?” he asked.
I pretended to scratch the place between my temple and forehead so I could shield my face with my hand and pointed toward the desk where an impatient, fidgety woman stood—our local Sally Alexander, warrior for justice, or at least her approximation of the ideal. She looked somehow smaller without her picket signs and bright red lipstick. “She’s not exactly a fan of mine.”
Lock sat up straighter in his chair. “Well, this just got interesting.”
“For you. I think for me it’s time to leave.” The very last thing I wanted to do was get into some kind of public confrontation with the woman.
“Not so fast,” Lock said. “I’m almost sure there’s more to see.”
He was right, not that either of us could have predicted what happened next. The door from the clinic rooms opened again, and this time the woman who came through was perhaps the last person I expected to see—Mrs. Patel, Lily’s mother. ?At first I didn’t recognize her, wearing lavender scrubs with her hair pulled up in a tight bun. I’d only ever seen her the once, at Mr. Patel’s funeral. But something about her expression caught my eye, and then everything clicked into place. She looked weary, like someone who had already hiked to the top of a mountain that day. It was the same look she’d worn at her husband’s memorial.
“Thought I’d never get out of here,” Sally said.
“I’m so sorry for the wait, Mrs. Greeves. The doctor had a few difficult patients this morning that threw his schedule off.” Mrs. Patel attempted a placating smile, but I was pretty sure there was no smile that would have placated our Sally, or whatever her name really was.
“If you’re sorry, don’t let it happen again. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I don’t have places to go.”
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Patel said. “Completely our fault.”
Lock nudged me as the two of them started in on paperwork at the front desk. “Do these two know each other?” he asked, motioning between Mrs. Greeves and the woman from the park.
“How would I know?”
“Watch this.” He gestured toward Mrs. Greeves, who asked a question about something on the paperwork and then, when Mrs. Patel’s head was down, Greeves reached behind her back to make an okay sign with her fingers. As if on cue, the woman from the park slid a magazine off the table next to her, rolled it up, and slid it into a satchel at her hip. Lock and I exchanged a glance and then went back to watching them with renewed interest.
By the time Mrs. Greeves left, the woman from the park had managed to hide away a second magazine into one of the bags tied at her wrist and a third down the front of her shirt.
Lock kept a lookout until Mrs. Patel disappeared into the back of the clinic once more, and then he grabbed the hand I’d been using to hide and pulled me toward the front door. The woman from the park must have concluded her business as well, because she beelined for the door right as we did, and might have beat us through if she hadn’t paused to look behind her, right at me, as it turned out.
“I know you,” she said, blocking our retreat.
I offered up a half smile and a nod, hoping either she’d move or Lock would push past, but neither happened. Lock just looked from the woman to me and asked, “You say you know her? From where?”
“Does it really matter?” I asked, in what I had meant to be a whisper but that came out sounding like an exasperated growl.
“Vivianne,” the woman said. Then her expression darkened and she said, “Ninianne.”
I turned to Lock, hoping he’d finally help to get us out of there, but he only stared at the woman as if he were studying her. I said, “You must have me confused with—”
“Nimue,” she hissed.
And I was almost sure she was about to lunge at me when Mrs. Patel’s warm voice called out, “Lady Constance! I saved up some more magazines for you. Just like I promised.” We all turned toward the reception desk, where Mrs. Patel held out a thick stack of worn magazines. “Here you are!”
There was a bit of an awkward pause, where we all just stared at the magazines, but then Constance lunged toward the desk instead of at me, giving me ample time to drag Sherlock through the door and out onto the street. He guided me down an alley between the clinic and the next building, and then we watched as the Lady Constance ambled past, muttering to herself.
When she was a safe distance from us, I said, “Those were King Arthur references. Is she our artist then?”
“No. Her hands tremor. I doubt she could keep it at bay long enough to do that kind of detailed work.”
I frowned, at first angry with myself for failing to notice such an obvious clue, but then at Lock, who whispered, “Nimue,” with bright eyes.