The Thornless Rose by Morgan O'Neill

wet stone, and listened.
    …
    “Hello? Dr. Brandon?” Anne’s heart pounded. Soon, she’d have a friend, a confidant who could help her and understand.
    The seconds dragged by. “Hello? Anyone there?” She heard movement on the other side of the door. “Dr. Brandon?”
    The steps came closer and stopped. A small door, covered by a metal grill, opened in the wall beside the main door. It was just big enough to show the face of a woman: hazel eyes narrowed with cat-like certainty, finely arched eyebrows furrowed, annoyed.
    Anne pushed her hood back and smiled. “Hello.”
    “What is it? Art thou ill, or wantin’ a room?” The voice was gruff, but not unkind. “The good doctor is no’ here and I dinna expect him fer some time, as he’s off t’ care for a woman during her goodly hour.”
    “Her what?” Anne could hardly make sense of the woman’s heavy accent and antiquated speech.
    “Mayhap thou art witless, then, or dost thou truly know naught o’ women’s ways? Mistress Gregg’s babe is due, if thou must speaketh crass o’ it, and there’s no tellin’ when the doctor’ll be back.”
    “Oh. I’m not ill, just in from out of town and a bit lost. I was sent to see Dr. Brandon by an old family friend of his. Miss Catherine Hastings? She said I could find him here. My name is Anne Howard. I’m the granddaughter of Catherine Ellen Hastings, and I must speak with him today.” Pausing, Anne looked hard at the woman. “Can you remember those names? Do you need to write it down?”
    The cat eyes flashed back at Anne. “I may no’ have me letters, but I’m no simpleton. I’ve enough o’ a brain to remember a message. The doctor’ll be here afore nine o’ the clock, I shouldna wonder, and I’ll give it t’ him straight away. I suggest thee come back ’round after the morning meal. Fer now, I have work that willna wait, as Dr. Brandon has seen fit t’ give holiday t’ nigh on the whole o’ the staff.”
    “But, please, I need some sleep. I can wait for him wherever you like. I won’t be any trouble.”
    “We’ve no’ a room left t’ let. An’ true enough, he’s a soft one for charity, he is, whether we can afford it or no, but I canna take thee in without his sayin’ so, an’ he’s no’ here t’ say. He’s given strict orders abou’ admittin’ people. Procedures an’ all as he calls it.”
    Anne stood still, mute, fighting back tears. She hadn’t anticipated rejection.
    “Weel, go on then. I canna stand here all day, lass.”
    “But you have to let me in! I’ve been running all over London tonight trying to find Dr. Brandon!” Anne heard her strident voice, but didn’t care. Grabbing the knob, she shook the door hard. “He’ll be furious if he finds out you’ve turned me away like this! What’s your name?”
    “Me name is me own business and none o’ yourn, and he’d be the more furious if I were t’ make light o’ his procedures by lettin’ thee in.” The woman’s voice was flat now, angry but controlled. “Take thine ease elsewhere, lass, an’ come back later. Fare thee well.”
    The little door snapped shut, and Anne stood there, feeling lost, alone, and frustrated.
    …
    Behind the headstone, Will Dawkins curled up, cold and damp from the continual drip of heavy mist. He squirmed in discomfort, for his legs had gone to sleep, giving him the pinpricks and a foul state of mind.
    Blasted wench . He studied the activity on the grounds. A guardsman strolled along the wall, sword in hand, while the witch-woman had just been refused entry.
    So, it seems, she’ll be leaving anon. Cursed be, cursed be .
    With a start, Will realized he’d be on the wrong side of the wall if that occurred.
    It dawned on him he had made a most unlucky decision; the witch wasn’t seeking lodgings or treatment at St. Bart’s. From what he had heard, she’d been looking for someone. And since the man wasn’t here, she was moving on.
    He should have waited with Jack. Rubbing a