Zek sat next to the velocipede in the barn, waiting patiently until it ran through the last of its water and the engine whirred to a stop. He patted the worn leather upholstery affectionately, returned all the controls to default, and then headed out of the barn, securing the door behind him.
There was a chill in the air this morning, and he grinned as he huffed out clouds of steam. Surgery tomorrow. And a wedding, he thought, but there would be a wedding whether he was there or not. He’d already done his dash as best man, and that was an afternoon he hoped never to experience again. The surgery, on the other hand, that required his presence. He wondered idly how many assistants, onlookers and surgeons-by-proxy could fit into the infirmary. He was glad he wasn’t in Albi any more. They would have made a lecture in practical medicine out of him.
Three days had passed since he’d left Hanover, off to Portree again (despite Leo’s stern looks - Zek had scribbled that it was only fifteen miles, and then underlined it seven times) to help with the early lambing. Many of the Portree folks now knew him as ‘That Irish lad that doesn’t talk.’ #74 had said once that Bill referred to him as ‘the farmer’. Zek liked that, in a way. It made him sound like a city boy made good.
He wandered round the side of the taverna, looking in through the infirmary window briefly, then stopped at the edge of the porch, watching Esther lifting Harriet high into the air. He saw a man in a red Robin coat come walking patiently across the grass towards him, raising his eyebrows in an inquiring way.
