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And she feels a warm touch on her wrist. The bare skin explodes with sparks and melts and sizzles; and no amount of fine acrylic ligature can save the heat on Clark's fingertips.

Somewhere in her ribs an exhalation reverberates – a pinchingly warm watercolor splash; a vivid color; a velvet; and Emily is afraid to move.

It lasts a moment – their fingers are almost touching, just a little more, and she can take Clark's hand, and it hits, hits the dry current all over her body.

– You can't ignore me.

Clark so easily jumps from formal conversation to a simple tone, as if they were friends or colleagues; so easily switches from the role of an icy neurosurgeon to an ordinary person, that Emily turns to her, obeying the slight, unobtrusive movement of her hand – and looks into her eyes, trying to see something there.

Some answer to the thousand questions that have arisen.

But things always turn out differently.

– Dr. Clark. – She gently releases her hand. – Please. It's all right. Better me than you. After all… It's just a mistake.

The door slams shut.

All that's left is fire.

and the truth is, it doesn't matter now. you became yesterday. you became paper.

and I, touching the tops of the towers,

losing my memory

from the heights.

In order not to finally burn out in the silence of the uncomfortable room, Emily climbs into the bathtub. Under the pressure of the icy water, her sobs are almost inaudible-first loud and desperate, and then internal, convulsive, turning into hoarse moans.

By noon the next day, distraught by the silence and her own tearful voice, Emily decides it's time to stop burning. I'm a soldier, she tries to impress upon herself, a fighter, nothing to be afraid of, what's the big deal, work; as it collapses, so it builds…

But she is not impressed.

Bare branches of early autumn veins bloom in the sky, and Emily swings open the window – as if the fire is afraid of the cold air – sits on a chair and tries to breathe.

After half an hour, the thought crosses her mind that dying of tuberculosis, pneumonia, or the flu would not be very productive.

The window is slammed shut.

The kettle is put on, boiled, cooled, put back on; the bedding is changed twice a day; dust disappears from the windowsill, settles on the floor; creaky wood is washed, blinds are wiped, cleaning products are smelled.

Emily is dreaming.

Legions of shadows, a cloud thickening in the silence of the hospital corridors, whispering and beckoning after them – to the wards, to the tiny personal Underworlds, where the leaden fog of pharmacon strikes the sick head.

Hands are tied with a thin needle crudely thrust into a vein; tubes and fluid envelope the body. The hinges on the doors creak.

Clark dances – barefoot, with flowers embedded in the empty ovals of her eye sockets, smiling, moving, approaching Emily, and a wry mockery distorts her face.

What have you become, Johnson?

I wouldn't leave anyway.

Emily jerks her body up in bed – there's still a gray monochrome square of sky outside the window – and, rising to her feet in a split second, goes to put the kettle on.

It's starting to rain.

She has nothing to do – no work to look for, and she is frankly afraid to spend money; so once again she climbs under the covers and sinks into a half-slumber. There, in her head, she has another life, imagined, perfect – a white coat, a restaurant for Friday night, a personal secretary.

She imagines it all so vividly that she even moves her hands, imagining she is holding a scalpel. A conductor without an orchestra. A violinist without a violin.

Clark is added to another life, too. Thoughts bounce, bounce, bounce; how about dinner together, Lorraine? My treat. Let's celebrate the operation, we did a great job. Why don't we bring Charlie? He's a smart guy, isn't he? Why don't I give you a ride home, since your Cooper's in the shop? Let's go for a drive around London in the evening. Another cup of coffee, and then we'll be off.

The warm touch of a spider's long fingers on my wrist.

You can't ignore me.

Loneliness is eating me alive.

* * *

Nothing in the world would outweigh her importance on the scale.

Emily walks in circles around Royal London Hospital; the familiar, jagged, automated route, the planes on the windows, Mr. Connors in the reflections, the tinkling bells and yellow lights.

She doesn't know why she's doing this, but at seven in the morning she stands outside the coffee shop and waits.

It's been an hour. Or maybe two.

Lorraine swaps her parka for a long coat; Charlie swaps her glasses for lenses; Lorraine purses her lips, ordering black; Charlie asks for more syrup in her milk.

Emily presses the back of her head against the glass and closes her eyes, imagining that now she too will order her coffee and run to work afterwards.

They're so close you can hear them talking: the neurosurgeon curses the bitter cold, Charlie complains about the traffic downtown; he says it's nice to live on Queen Anne, it's always quiet and peaceful; and Lorraine purses her lips: Oswin is nice, too, and it's obviously closer; or do you want to live like Moss, in Belgravia? And have thirty women bring you breakfast in bed?