Chapter Text
Doctor Princess
Collei caught up with Sandrone halfway down towards the Coronary Care Unit, just before the corridor turned toward the lifts.
The ward was quieter than the rest of the Bimarstan. Most of the room doors were shut, and the afternoon light from the windows fell in pale rectangles across the polished floor. A meal cart stood parked near the nurses’ station. Somewhere behind a closed door, a monitor gave one sharp beep before settling again.
“Excuse me—Sandrone?” Collei slowed beside her. “One of the patients keeps asking for you.”
Sandrone looked up from the assignment sheet in her hand. It contained three unfinished tasks, two room numbers, and a note from Kuki Shinobu written so neatly that its disapproval seemed typeset. None of it offered a reasonable explanation for why a patient would know who she was.
“You have the wrong student.”
“I thought so too at first, but her description was fairly specific.”
“I have not spoken to any of the patients on this ward.”
“She doesn’t know your name.”
“That supports my point.”
Collei glanced toward the nurses’ station, then lowered her voice. “She asked for ‘the beautiful blonde student who looks angry at the building.’”
The corridor seemed to become even quieter.
Near the desk, the ward printer began producing pages with the irregular determination of a machine approaching death.
Sandrone lowered the assignment sheet. “Who said that?”
“Columbina. Room twelve.”
Of course it was room twelve.
Sandrone had begun her rotation under Doctor Baizhu only three days earlier, alongside Sucrose, Noelle, and Tighnari. Most mornings, the four of them followed him from ward to ward, trying to absorb his explanations while staying out of the way of people doing actual work. Sandrone had expected the usual humiliations of clinical training: questions she could answer perfectly in private and not at all when asked in front of six people, meals eaten while walking, and carefully planned schedules ruined by one late result.
She had not expected to be described to the nursing staff as angry at the architecture.
“I was not angry at the building,” she said.
Collei looked at the nearest wall as if checking whether it required defending. “I told her you were probably concentrating.”
“I was.”
“You were staring at the wall.”
“Doctor Baizhu was speaking.”
That was mostly true.
Their group had reached room twelve near the end of rounds that morning. Baizhu had stopped outside the partly open door and reminded them that they would not be discussing the patient’s case. Then he had knocked against the frame.
The room beyond had been larger than those on the general floor but crowded by the signs of a long stay. Books filled the lower shelf beneath the window. Paper birds stood along the sill. A dark cardigan hung over the visitor’s chair, and several pillows kept the patient sitting upright in bed. Beside her, a clear line ran from beneath the loose sleeve of her hospital clothes to an infusion pump.
Her long dark hair fell over one shoulder, broken by soft pink strands and a white ribbon that looked far too cheerful for the room.
“Would you mind if I briefly introduced the students observing my rounds?” Baizhu had asked.
The woman had looked over the four of them. “You may.”
It had not been a formal introduction. Baizhu had explained only that they were final-year medical students completing part of their clinical clerkship. He had not given their names, asked the woman to share her history, or allowed the students to question her.
Sandrone had approved. A hospital bed did not turn a person into public teaching material.
Then the woman’s attention had settled on her.
Her eyes had been half-lidded, almost closed, but there was nothing inattentive about the way she looked. Sandrone had experienced the absurd sensation of being inspected from the collar of her white coat to the red clip securing her pale hair.
“You’re very pretty,” the woman had said.
Sucrose had made a small choking sound.
Noelle had become intensely interested in the foot of the bed. Tighnari had looked at Sandrone with the calm, merciless attention of someone saving the moment for later.
Sandrone had answered the only sensible way.
“I’m sorry, miss. I don’t think that’s medically relevant.”
The woman’s mouth had curved.
“No,” she had agreed. “But it is true.”
Baizhu had thanked her for allowing the introduction, then dismissed the students. The door had closed behind them before he continued the clinical discussion. Sandrone had left knowing nothing about the woman’s diagnosis beyond what could be noticed without intruding: the monitor, the intravenous line, the careful arrangement of pillows, and the fact that Baizhu—a cardiologist—was involved in her care.
She had expected never to think of the encounter again.
This had apparently been optimistic.
Collei shifted the clipboard against her hip. “She’s asked at least three people whether the blonde student is coming back.”
“There are many blonde students in this hospital.”
“That’s what I told her.”
Sandrone waited.
Collei sighed. “Then she said, ‘The short one with blue eyes and a red hair clip.’”
“That remains insufficient.”
“She also said you looked like you wanted to correct Doctor Baizhu but had decided to preserve the peace.”
Sandrone stared at her.
“Her words,” Collei said quickly. “Not mine.”
“I had no intention of correcting him. His explanation was accurate.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“It could merely have been organized more efficiently.”
Collei pressed her lips together. It did not entirely hide her smile.
Sandrone folded her assignment sheet once, with unnecessary precision. “What does she want?”
“She won’t tell us. She just keeps asking if you’re working today.”
“I am visibly working today.”
“I noticed.”
“Then her question has been answered.”
Sandrone stepped around her.
She had gone only a few paces when Collei called, “Should I tell her anything?”
Sandrone stopped and looked back.
“Tell her that identifying a medical student through increasingly invasive descriptions is not an appropriate use of the nursing staff’s time.”
Collei blinked. “Do you want me to say all of that?”
“Preferably.”
“Right.” Collei glanced down the corridor toward room twelve. “I may make it sound a little less like a legal notice.”
Sandrone continued toward the lifts. “Do not change the meaning.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Collei called after her.
* * *
Columbina called for her the following morning.
Sandrone and Sucrose had just left the small supply room opposite room twelve. Sucrose was balancing a clipboard, two reference cards, and a cup of coffee she had already forgotten to drink when a soft voice drifted through the open doorway.
“Blonde student.”
Sandrone kept walking.
Sucrose glanced sideways. “Uh, I’m pretty sure she means you.”
“There is no evidence of that.”
“Blue eyes,” Columbina added.
Sucrose pushed her glasses up with one finger. “That’s slightly more evidence.”
Sandrone did not slow.
“Red hair clip.”
Sucrose looked genuinely apologetic now. “That is definitely you.”
Sandrone stopped so abruptly that the hem of her white coat swung around her legs.
From where she stood, she could see most of Columbina’s room. The bed occupied the wall to the right, angled so its occupant could see both the window and the door. Columbina sat in the visitor’s chair beside it with a blanket over her knees and an open book in her lap.
Her infusion pole stood at her left shoulder. Someone—almost certainly Columbina—had tied a white paper bow beneath its handle and taped a name card to the metal shaft. SERAFINA had been written across it in large, careful letters.
It took Sandrone a moment to understand that Columbina had named the pole carrying her medication.
“You cannot shout for people across a hospital corridor,” Sandrone said.
Columbina’s voice had not remotely qualified as shouting, which made her faint smile particularly irritating.
“I called politely.”
“You called three times.”
“You ignored me twice.”
“That was deliberate.”
Columbina considered this. “Would it be more appropriate if you came inside?”
“It would be more appropriate if you let us work.”
“Then what am I supposed to do? My options are becoming very limited.”
“You could stop calling me.”
“I don’t like that option.”
Sucrose took a small step away, her coffee held close to her chest as if it might protect her.
Sandrone said, “This corridor is shared by patients and staff. You cannot use it to summon strangers for personal conversations.”
“Then visit me.”
“I’m not assigned to you.”
“You could visit without an assignment.”
“I could also finish my work.”
“You haven’t even told me your name.”
“You do not need it.”
Columbina lowered her voice as if sharing a genuine concern. “That makes writing poetry about you very difficult.”
Sucrose’s clipboard slipped against her arm. She caught it before it hit the floor, but the reference cards scattered around her shoes.
Sandrone turned away. “Do not write poetry about me.”
“What about a short letter?”
“Keep that too.”
“A tasteful drawing?”
Sandrone bent to hand Sucrose one of the fallen cards, then started down the corridor again.
Behind her, Columbina called, “I’m very good at crowns.”
Sandrone did not look back.
Sucrose hurried after her, tucking the cards beneath her clipboard. Her expression had become so carefully blank that it was insulting.
“You may say it,” Sandrone told her.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You have been trying not to laugh for the last thirty seconds.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” Sucrose said. “I’m just surprised. She really does seem to like you.”
“She has seen me twice.”
“That can be enough for an initial—” Sucrose stopped herself. “Sorry. I was going to compare it to a sample.”
“This is not an experiment.”
“I know. That’s why I stopped.”
They reached the workroom at the end of the corridor. Tighnari stood at the counter sorting follow-up slips into piles, his coffee pushed safely beyond Sucrose’s reach.
He glanced at the cards in her arms, then at Sandrone. “What happened to you two?”
“Nothing,” Sandrone said.
Sucrose set down her things. “Room twelve offered to write Sandrone poetry.”
Tighnari handed Sandrone the top slip from his pile. “You were gone for six minutes.”
“Apparently that was enough.”
“Did you accept?”
Sandrone gave him a flat look.
“I’ll put that down as undecided,” he said.
“Put down nothing. There is nothing to put down.”
Sucrose finally took a sip of her coffee and made a face when she discovered it had gone cold.
It should have been simple to resolve. Sandrone intended to ignore Columbina until the interest exhausted itself. Boredom could make people invent entertainment out of whatever passed their doors, and Columbina had clearly been in the ward long enough to name her infusion pole and dress it in paper accessories. A hostile medical student was simply the newest available distraction.
Sandrone gave the matter no more attention until Barbara found her near the stairwell before lunch.
The younger nurse approached with an envelope held in both hands and an expression that already made Sandrone suspicious.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” Barbara said. “I said I’d give you this.”
Across the envelope, in neat handwriting, were the words:
FOR THE BEAUTIFUL BLONDE MEDICAL STUDENT WHO DISAPPROVES OF CORRIDOR COMMUNICATION
Sandrone looked from the envelope to Barbara. “Take it back.”
“You haven’t opened it.”
“I am rejecting the entire category of object.”
“She promised it isn’t poetry.”
“That does not improve the situation.”
“It has one question. She said you can answer in less than five seconds.”
“My answer is no.”
Barbara glanced at the envelope. “You don’t know the question.”
“The answer remains available.”
“Please just read it. If I take it back unopened, she’ll ask me to describe your face, and I’m terrible at that sort of thing.”
Allowing the discussion to continue would waste more time. Sandrone took the envelope and opened it with one finger.
Inside was a single folded sheet.
ARE YOU SINGLE?
Please select one:
☐ Yes
☐ No
☐ No, but circumstances may change
Sandrone folded the page again.
Barbara waited. “Well?”
“I am not completing this.”
“I need to be clear—does that mean you’re single, or—”
“It means you are taking this back to room twelve.”
“Got it.” Barbara accepted the envelope. “I’ll tell her you declined to answer.”
“Please also explain that the staff are not her private mail service.”
“Collei already tried.”
Sandrone paused. “And?”
“Columbina asked if internal hospital mail would be more appropriate.”
Sandrone closed her eyes for a moment.
When she opened them, Barbara had pressed her lips together, but her eyes were smiling.
“Do not encourage her.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“A little,” Barbara admitted. “But I’ll tell her to stop if you want me to.”
“I do.”
Barbara nodded and started away. After two steps, she looked back.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think she expects you to say yes yet.”
“Then the exercise is even more pointless.”
“Maybe she just likes asking.”
Sandrone returned to her work before Barbara could offer further theories.
The next note arrived after lunch the following day.
It did not contain a question. It contained a drawing.
Barbara unfolded it on the counter of the workroom while Sandrone, Sucrose, and Noelle were attempting to finish their notes before afternoon rounds.
Sandrone recognized herself because the figure had pale yellow hair, blue circles for eyes, and an expression of furious disapproval. A red-and-black gown replaced her clinical clothes. A stethoscope hung around her neck, and a crown nearly as large as her head floated above her hair.
Beneath the drawing, Columbina had written:
DOCTOR PRINCESS, FIRST OF HER NAME
SPECIALIST IN SAYING NO
CURRENTLY ACCEPTING ONE GIRLFRIEND
In smaller writing at the bottom:
Applications may be submitted directly to room twelve.
Noelle leaned closer. “The crown is quite nice.”
Sandrone turned to her.
“Artistically,” Noelle added. “Not that I think Barbara should have brought it.”
“She said the likeness would be obvious,” Barbara explained.
“The proportions are impossible.” Sandrone tapped the drawing. “The stethoscope is backward, and this tubing comes from nowhere.”
Barbara squinted at it. “I think that part might be hair.”
“It is the same color as the tubing.”
Sucrose peered over Noelle’s shoulder. “Maybe she ran out of ink.”
“That would not change the anatomy.”
“I’ll let her know,” Barbara said.
“You will do no such thing.”
Noelle covered a smile by lowering her head over her notes.
Sandrone refolded the drawing along its original crease. “Why did you agree to carry this?”
“She asked nicely.”
“So did the first person who invented a chain letter.”
Barbara laughed. “Those are not the same.”
“They both rely on misplaced social obligation.”
“Do you want me to take it back?”
Sandrone looked down at the folded page.
“Obviously.”
Barbara held out her hand.
Sandrone passed it over after one second too long.
“You hesitated,” Barbara said.
“I was considering whether it belonged in clinical waste.”
“It’s paper.”
“I am aware.”
Barbara left with the drawing before Sandrone could object to the laughter following her out of the room.
The third message arrived two mornings later in a clear plastic folder.
This time Collei delivered it. She found Sandrone near the nurses’ station and held it out with the tired look of someone who had already lost an argument.
“Before you say anything, Barbara and I have spoken to her.”
“Then why are you holding that?”
“She asked me to deliver one final application. I told her this really would be the last one.”
Inside the folder was a form titled:
APPLICATION FOR PERMISSION TO COURT THE DOCTOR PRINCESS
Applicant: Columbina Hyposelenia
Current occupation: Patient, reader, occasional menace
Relevant qualifications:
1. Can fold a meal slip into a swan.
2. Knows many facts of disputed usefulness.
3. Has been told she has a pleasant singing voice.
4. Is willing to admire the Doctor Princess even when she is disagreeable.
5. Is extremely patient, except in all medical senses of the word.
Requested term of courtship: Indefinite, subject to renewal
Expected duties of the courted party: None, except occasional visits and tolerance of compliments
Benefits offered: Conversation, drawings, and first refusal of all unopened hospital puddings
At the bottom were two boxes.
☐ Approved
☐ Please revise and resubmit
There was no option for rejection.
Sandrone read it twice to make certain the omission was real.
Collei shifted beside her. “I think she spent most of yesterday working on it.”
“That is not a defense. She left out the only relevant response.”
“She said you could draw your own box.”
Sandrone removed a pen from her pocket. For one dangerous moment, she considered writing REJECTED in letters large enough to occupy the whole page.
That would count as participation.
She capped the pen again. “I will not respond.”
“That’s completely fair.” Collei’s shoulders relaxed. “We also told her we can’t keep carrying personal messages and that you don’t owe her an answer.”
“How did she take that?”
“She apologized. Then she asked whether ‘indefinitely’ lasted longer than the requested term of courtship.”
The corner of Sandrone’s mouth moved before she could stop it.
Collei’s eyes widened. “You nearly smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Go back to work, Collei.”
“I am working. This is where I work.”
“Sandrone?”
It was the first time anyone had said her name within hearing distance of room twelve.
Columbina’s door stood open several paces behind Collei. From the nurses’ station, the neatly made bed looked empty. Then the curtain beside the window shifted, and Columbina leaned out from behind it.
“Sandrone,” she repeated, as if testing the sound.
Collei turned around. “You’re meant to be resting.”
“I was looking outside.”
“You were listening to us.”
“The corridor became more interesting.”
Sandrone should have left. Instead, she took the application from Collei and crossed the short stretch of corridor to room twelve.
Columbina stood between the visitor’s chair and the window, one hand braced on the sill. Serafina waited at her other side, the infusion line giving her only so much room to move. The paper bow around the pole had been crushed on one side.
The few steps from the chair seemed to have cost Columbina more effort than she wanted acknowledged. Her face was paler than it had been two days earlier, and she drew each breath with deliberate care.
Sandrone noticed because noticing was automatic. She did not turn the details into a diagnosis.
“My name is Sandrone,” she said from the doorway. “I am a final-year medical student on a temporary rotation. I am not assigned to you, and the nurses have more important work than delivering personal messages on your behalf.”
Columbina’s smile faded. “I know.”
“Then this stops here.”
Columbina looked at the folder in Sandrone’s hand. “You didn’t approve it.”
“I stopped reading after you offered me unwanted pudding.”
“That was one of my strongest benefits.”
“Hospital pudding is not a benefit.”
“The vanilla tastes better than it looks.”
“That is a very low standard.”
Columbina’s mouth curved again, though less brightly than before.
Sandrone refused to be distracted. “Do not call after me in the corridor. Do not ask the nurses to bring me notes. I will not answer them, and they should not have to keep refusing for me.”
For once, Columbina did not offer an immediate argument. Her fingers smoothed the edge of the curtain.
“All right,” she said.
The easy surrender unsettled Sandrone more than another joke would have.
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
Columbina glanced past her. “I’m sorry, Collei. I shouldn’t have kept asking.”
Collei’s expression softened. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Sandrone held out the folder. Columbina accepted it and pressed it against her chest.
The matter was finished. Sandrone turned toward the door.
Then, with the calm of someone asking whether the cafeteria still served tea, Columbina said, “Will you be my girlfriend?”
Sandrone swung back around. “Absolutely not.”
“Then may I court you?”
“Never.”
Columbina considered the answer. “May I still call you Doctor Princess?”
“I am not a doctor yet.”
“Not yet.”
“And I am definitely not a princess.”
“You are as pretty as one.”
Heat reached Sandrone’s face with such speed that it felt like a personal betrayal.
Columbina smiled fully now.
“Repeating comments about my appearance does not make them more appropriate.”
“I’ll keep them inside the room.”
“Keep them to yourself.”
“That sounds very difficult.”
“For the love of the Archons, at least try.”
Columbina lowered herself into the visitor’s chair. She moved slowly, one hand gripping the armrest until she was settled. “I said I would stop calling and sending notes. I didn’t promise not to think you’re pretty.”
Sandrone found no professionally useful response to that.
She turned and walked away.
Behind her, Columbina said, “Goodbye, Sandrone.”
This time, she did not raise her voice for the corridor.
* * *
Columbina kept her promise.
For the next several days, no letters appeared on Sandrone’s assignment sheets. Barbara no longer approached her with suspicious envelopes. Collei stopped looking apologetic whenever they crossed paths, and room twelve remained quiet when Sandrone passed.
The silence should have been a relief.
It was.
Mostly.
Without the interruptions, the ward settled into a predictable shape. Sandrone learned which computer near the nurses’ station froze whenever someone opened more than two windows. She learned that the water dispenser made a grinding noise before producing water warm enough to be insulting. She learned that afternoon sunlight reached room twelve before any of the other rooms on that side of the corridor.
She also learned how often Columbina was alone.
Pale flowers appeared on her windowsill one morning. Three days later, they were gone and no one replaced them. During visiting hours, the chair beside her bed remained empty. No one left a coat over its back, a second cup on the table, or any of the small messes people made when they expected to return.
When Sandrone passed, Columbina was usually reading by the window, rearranging the harmless contents of her bedside drawer, or folding paper into animals. Serafina followed whenever she moved: from the bed to the chair, from the chair to the window, the white bow bobbing against the metal pole.
Once, Sandrone saw her asleep with the lights dimmed, one hand curled loosely over the blanket while the pump continued its quiet work beside her.
Another afternoon, two families filled the corridor at once. A child ran ahead carrying flowers; an older man argued with someone over a bag of fruit. Through the open door of room twelve, Columbina sat at the window with a book closed in her lap.
She looked toward Sandrone as she passed but did not call out.
The lack of interruption became its own kind of interruption.
Sandrone found Collei at the nurses’ station near the end of visiting hours. The desk lights had been switched on against the fading afternoon, and Collei was updating records between phone calls.
“How long has the patient in room twelve been admitted?” Sandrone asked.
Collei glanced up. “Columbina?”
“Unless someone else has taken the room without the board being updated.”
“Still Columbina.” Collei turned her chair slightly away from the screen. “She’s been here for a few months.”
The answer landed more heavily than Sandrone expected. “All this time?”
“I can’t talk about the details of her admission.”
“I am not asking for them.”
“I know.” Collei’s voice softened. “But yes. It’s been several months.”
Sandrone looked down the long corridor. Room twelve’s door was closed now, its small observation window reflecting the lights.
“Does no one visit her?”
“Her family is involved. They speak with the doctors and help arrange things from a distance.”
“That was not my question.”
Collei paused before answering. “They don’t come often.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know all of their reasons. Even if I did, it wouldn’t be my story to explain.”
Sandrone recognized the boundary and resented herself for walking up to it. “I was only curious.”
“I figured.”
“She appears chronically bored. It explains the notes.”
“It probably explains some of them.”
“All of them.”
Collei’s mouth curved. “If that makes you feel better.”
“It makes the situation logical.”
“Right.” Collei turned back to her screen. “For what it’s worth, she has been behaving.”
“I did not ask for an update.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Sandrone collected the chart Kuki had sent her to retrieve and left before Collei could say anything worse.
The door to room twelve was open again.
Columbina sat at the small table beneath the window, folding a square of pink paper. Serafina stood within reach, its wheels tucked against the chair. Afternoon light caught the metal and threw a narrow reflection across the floor.
Columbina looked up.
Sandrone kept walking.
The quiet followed her farther than it should have.
* * *
The difficult day began without announcing itself.
By late morning, one teaching discussion had been postponed, Sucrose had misplaced a pen that was later found in her hair, and Noelle had somehow volunteered to help three different departments before lunch.
Sandrone spent twenty minutes waiting for a computer in the student workroom to respond. Tighnari finally leaned over her shoulder and pressed a button she was certain she had already pressed.
The screen immediately returned to life.
“Don’t,” Sandrone said.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Your face has.”
Tighnari pulled the spare chair toward the opposite computer. “That sounds familiar.”
Sucrose looked up from the desk. “Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Both of you have work.”
“So do you,” Tighnari said. “Now that your computer works.”
None of these inconveniences deserved the mood they produced.
At half past one, Collei appeared in the workroom doorway.
“Do you have a minute?”
Sandrone did not look away from her notes. “Not a useful one.”
“It’s Columbina.”
That got her attention.
Collei’s expression lacked the reluctant amusement that had accompanied the earlier messages.
Sandrone set down her pen. “What happened?”
“She’s having a rough day. She barely touched breakfast, refused most of lunch, and put off her medication. She also won’t go to the rehabilitation session they scheduled.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because she keeps asking if you’re here.”
Sandrone’s fingers tightened once around the edge of the desk. “I thought she stopped.”
“She stopped calling after you and sending notes. Today she’s only asking whether you’re on the ward.”
“Did something upset her?”
“We think so, but she won’t explain.” Collei stepped farther into the room. “Barbara and I have both tried. We’ve told her we aren’t going to bargain with her, but she won’t talk to us.”
“You cannot make me responsible for whether she follows her treatment plan.”
“I’m not asking you to be.”
“That is what this sounds like.”
Collei took a breath, then nodded. “I understand why. You’re right—this is not your job, and Columbina’s care doesn’t depend on you. I’m only asking whether you’d sit with her for a few minutes. Not treat her. Not promise anything. Just talk.”
Sandrone looked at the unfinished notes on her desk.
Noelle appeared behind Collei carrying a stack of folders nearly to her chin. “I can finish checking those if you need to go.”
“You already have too much to do.”
“I’m nearly done with the discharge forms.”
Sandrone frowned. “When did you finish the other ward’s forms?”
“While the computer was restarting.”
Sandrone had watched the same computer restart. She did not understand how Noelle had accomplished anything during that period, but asking would only create another problem.
“This is not my assignment,” she said.
“We know,” Noelle replied gently. “You don’t have to go.”
That should have settled it.
Instead, Sandrone found herself outside Baizhu’s office three minutes later.
His office overlooked the inner courtyard, though half the window had disappeared behind stacks of journals and patient files. He listened while Collei explained, one hand resting beside a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.
When she finished, he turned to Sandrone.
“You may sit with Columbina if you choose.”
“And if I decline?”
“Her care will continue without you.”
The answer released a small, embarrassing amount of pressure from Sandrone’s chest.
Baizhu folded his hands on the desk. “She is not your patient. You are not responsible for her medical decisions, her cooperation, or her emotional state. Do not allow her—or yourself—to confuse companionship with clinical responsibility.”
“I would not.”
“I don’t believe you would do it intentionally.” His voice remained mild. “But you place great value on being useful. Sometimes that makes it difficult to notice when usefulness has turned into obligation.”
Sandrone disliked the accuracy of this observation.
“If she refuses again after I leave?”
“Her team will handle it.”
“And if she cooperates only while I’m there?”
“We will handle that too. You must not become a condition of her care.”
Sandrone nodded once. “Understood.”
Baizhu returned his attention to the document before him. “Five minutes may be enough.”
Collei waited outside the office.
“Well?” she asked.
“I will sit with her for five minutes.”
Relief crossed Collei’s face. “Thank you.”
“This is not an intervention. I am not persuading her to take anything.”
“Understood.”
“And if she asks you to deliver another note afterward—”
“I’ll remind her of the rule. Come on.”
They walked together to room twelve.
The door was almost closed. Collei knocked, then pushed it inward.
The curtains had been drawn halfway across the window, dimming the room. An untouched tray sat on the over-bed table, its covered bowl of soup fogged with condensation. Columbina lay propped against her pillows, turned toward the narrow strip of daylight. Serafina stood beside the bed without its paper bow.
“Someone came to see you,” Collei said.
Columbina looked over.
For the first time since Sandrone had met her, no smile appeared.
Her face looked colorless against the pillow. Her dark hair lay loose around her shoulders, the white ribbon gone. One hand rested near the line running beneath her sleeve; the fingers curled there looked cold.
Sandrone stayed beside the door.
“I’ll be right outside,” Collei said.
Then she left them alone.
Five minutes, Sandrone reminded herself.
Columbina watched her from the bed. “You came.”
“Collei asked me to.”
“You could have refused.”
“The nursing staff had run out of reasonable strategies.”
A faint curve touched Columbina’s mouth, then disappeared.
Sandrone crossed the room to the visitor’s chair but did not sit. “Collei says you refused rehabilitation.”
“I postponed it.”
“You also postponed your medication and barely ate.”
“The soup is terrible.”
“You tried to bargain away your pudding less than a week ago.”
“That pudding had value. The soup has none.”
Her voice was softer than usual, but the deflection remained intact.
Sandrone placed her notes and pen on the bedside table. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“People do not abandon three parts of their routine because nothing happened.”
“Sometimes they do.”
“Not convincingly.”
Columbina turned back toward the window. The sky beyond it was pale and washed out, offering nothing worth such careful study.
Sandrone waited.
Silence rarely troubled her. Most people hurried to fill it and often became more informative as a result. Columbina simply let it remain.
After a while, she asked, “If I take everything, will you stay?”
There it was.
Sandrone had expected manipulation to be easier to reject when spoken plainly. Instead, the question sounded tired.
She refused to let that change the answer.
“I am not something you earn by taking your medicine.”
Columbina looked at her again.
“You do not eat for me,” Sandrone continued. “You do not attend rehabilitation for me. You do not cooperate so I will visit, and you do not refuse because I won’t. I have no place in those decisions.”
“I thought you might say that.”
“Then you should not have tried it.”
“I wanted to know whether you would answer differently when I looked pathetic.”
Sandrone’s irritation sharpened. “Do not call yourself that.”
“Why?”
“Because looking unwell is not the same as looking pathetic. Do not reduce yourself just because you think it will make this easier for me to dismiss.”
Columbina went still.
Sandrone heard her own words after they had escaped and wished language could be recalled by force.
She added, more coldly than necessary, “If something frightened or upset you, tell your care team. They cannot help with information you refuse to give them.”
“What if I don’t want to talk about it?”
“Then say that. It is still more useful than pretending nothing happened.”
Columbina studied her face. “Will you be angry if I don’t tell you?”
“I am already angry.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I will not be angry because you chose not to share something private with a medical student who is not assigned to you.”
“You make that sound very sensible.”
“It is.”
“I don’t feel sensible today.”
Sandrone finally sat in the chair.
The room was too warm. The untouched soup waited between them. On the windowsill, three paper animals stood in a row: a bird, a lopsided rabbit, and something with too many folds to identify.
“You do not have to be sensible,” Sandrone said. “You do have to stop treating your care like a negotiation.”
Columbina’s fingers tightened once over the blanket. “All right. I’ll try.”
“Do you mean that, or do you want me to stop talking?”
“Both, a little.”
The answer was inconveniently honest.
Sandrone moved the call button closer to Columbina’s hand without pressing it. “Tell Collei you are ready.”
“Are you leaving?”
“That has nothing to do with whether you take your medication.”
“I know.”
“Then call her.”
Columbina looked at the button, then at Sandrone. After a moment, she pressed it.
Barbara arrived carrying a small medication cup and the guarded expression of someone prepared for another refusal.
Columbina said, “I’ll take it now.”
Barbara’s gaze briefly moved to Sandrone. Sandrone gave her a warning look before she could smile.
“Thank you for telling me,” Barbara said to Columbina.
She handled the medication herself, checking what needed to be checked and waiting while Columbina swallowed. Sandrone stayed out of the way. She offered neither encouragement nor approval.
When Barbara collected the cup, Columbina said, “I’ll try some food in a minute.”
“You don’t have to finish everything,” Barbara told her. “Start with a few bites and see how you feel.”
“The soup remains indefensible.”
“Your complaint has been officially recorded.”
“What about rehabilitation?”
Barbara hesitated. “We can ask about a shorter session if you’re feeling worse, but you need to tell us what’s going on.”
“I’m tired.”
“More than usual?”
Columbina looked down at the blanket.
Barbara waited without filling the silence.
“Yes,” Columbina said at last. “And nauseous.”
“Thank you. I’ll update the team.”
The nurse did not ask further questions in front of Sandrone. She adjusted the tray and left the room.
Sandrone checked the time.
Seven minutes had passed.
She stood.
Columbina looked up at her. “Will you stay anyway?”
There was no bargain in the question now. No promise to eat, no medication held hostage, no ridiculous form offering unwanted pudding. Only the request.
Sandrone should have left.
She had notes to finish. Kuki expected the students in twenty minutes. Noelle was completing work that belonged to her, and Tighnari would notice the exact length of her absence because Tighnari noticed everything unpleasant.
“Five more minutes,” Sandrone said.
Columbina settled deeper into the pillows. “You said that seven minutes ago.”
“I did not say it to you.”
“You said it with your face.”
“My face says no such thing.”
“It says many things.”
“Most of which you invent.”
“Some of which I draw.”
“Poorly.”
That earned the smallest laugh. It ended quickly, leaving Columbina quiet while she caught her breath.
Sandrone pretended not to watch.
When the pause passed, Columbina asked, “Have you ever ridden a pony?”
Sandrone had expected another medical bargain, perhaps even another proposal. “What?”
“A pony.”
“I know what a pony is.”
“Have you ridden one?”
“This is irrelevant.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“No, I have not ridden a pony.”
Columbina looked pleased to have extracted a complete sentence. “You seem like someone who would have ridden a very severe pony as a child.”
“There is no such category of pony.”
“There must be.”
“Animals do not acquire moral qualities based on the people riding them.”
Columbina’s eyes drifted closed, though the curve of her mouth remained. “What did you do as a child?”
“I studied.”
“That cannot be all.”
“It was enough.”
“No tree climbing?”
“Unnecessary.”
“Swimming in rivers?”
“Unsanitary.”
“Running away to join a traveling circus?”
“Ridiculous.”
Columbina opened her eyes. “You might have been excellent with the horses.”
“I have never expressed an interest in horses.”
“You look disapproving. They respect that.”
Sandrone glanced at the clock. “Your five minutes are over.”
“Have you been on a roller coaster?”
“I have never paid someone to throw me along a badly designed metal structure.”
“What if it were well designed?”
“The experience would remain pointless.”
“You’ve thought about it.”
“I have not.”
“You immediately judged the structure.”
“That is basic judgment.”
Columbina nodded as though this confirmed something important. “Would you go on one if someone asked?”
“Unlikely.”
“What if I asked?”
“Even less likely.”
“I’ll ask again later.”
“There should not be a later.”
The words came automatically. Without their usual rhythm, they landed too hard.
Columbina looked toward the window.
Sandrone sat back down.
“This is still not a visit,” she said.
“What is it?”
“A delay.”
“Delays are allowed to be pleasant.”
“I have not agreed that it is pleasant.”
“You sat down again.”
Sandrone ignored that.
Barbara returned with a smaller plate: toast, sliced fruit, and something plain enough not to produce an immediate objection. She also brought tea.
“The rehabilitation session is postponed until the team checks on you,” she said. “That was their decision. No bargains.”
Columbina nodded.
Barbara set the plate within reach. “Try what you can.”
She gave Sandrone a look containing far too much understanding and left.
Columbina picked up a piece of toast.
Sandrone turned toward the window so eating would not become a performance. She heard the quiet movement of the plate and the cup being lifted. She did not count bites. Counting would imply responsibility.
After a while, Columbina asked, “Have you seen the sea at night?”
Sandrone looked back.
Half the toast was gone.
“Once.”
“What did it look like?”
“Like the sea, but dark.”
“That is a terrible description.”
“It is accurate.”
“Can’t it be accurate and pretty?”
Sandrone considered refusing. Instead, she searched through a memory she had not visited in years.
“The horizon disappeared,” she said. “There were very few lights along that part of the shore, so the water and the sky became difficult to separate. You could only tell where the waves ended because the foam caught the moonlight.”
Columbina listened without interrupting.
“There,” Sandrone said. “Accurate.”
“And pretty.”
“It was not decoration. Those were observable conditions.”
“Was it beautiful?”
Sandrone could have said beauty was subjective. She could have asked why Columbina insisted on imprecise questions.
“Yes.”
The answer came out quieter than intended.
Columbina lowered her tea. “Were you alone?”
“That is another question.”
“You still haven’t answered it.”
“I was with my family.”
“Did you like being there?”
“I disliked the sand. It got into our shoes, our bags, and somehow the food.”
“Of course you disliked the sand.”
“Most reasonable people do.”
“But did you like the sea?”
Sandrone looked at her.
Columbina’s attention no longer felt like the exaggerated admiration that had inspired crowns and applications. She was not waiting for Sandrone to become embarrassed. She seemed to want the answer simply because it belonged to Sandrone.
“I liked the sea,” Sandrone said.
“I think I would too.”
The words were ordinary. Something in their careful delivery made Sandrone hesitate.
“Have you never seen it?”
Columbina selected a slice of fruit and examined it. “Not at night.”
Sandrone waited, but she offered nothing more.
She did not press.
Instead, Columbina asked, “Have you read The Little Prince?”
“I know what it is.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I haven’t read it.”
“It’s about a prince who lives alone on an asteroid with a rose.”
“An asteroid that small could not retain an atmosphere.”
“It’s a story.”
“Stories are not exempt from internal logic.”
“He watches sunsets by moving his chair.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It explains everything if you read it.”
“And what happens?”
“He leaves his rose and travels to other planets. Eventually, he finds a garden full of roses that look exactly like her.”
“Then his rose is not unique.”
“He thinks so too, at first.”
“That sounds like a reasonable conclusion.”
“It makes him miserable.”
“That does not make it unreasonable.”
Columbina smiled. “Then he meets a fox who helps him understand that his rose is different because she is the one he cared for. He sheltered her from the wind, listened to her complain, and worried about her when he was away.”
“That distinction is entirely subjective.”
“Yes.”
“And you consider it beautiful.”
“Very.”
“You have used that word twice in less than a minute.”
“I like beautiful things.”
Sandrone recognized the direction of the conversation too late.
“Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to ask if you wanted to borrow the book.”
“That is not what you were going to ask.”
Columbina smiled into her teacup. “You’re learning.”
Sandrone checked the time again.
Twenty-six minutes had passed.
She should have been alarmed. Instead, she found herself asking, “Why does caring for one rose make it more valuable than all the others?”
“Because the time he gave her cannot be given to any other rose.”
“That is sentimental reasoning.”
“It is.”
“And the prince accepts it?”
“Eventually.”
“He should have reached that conclusion without consulting a fox.”
“Would you like to read it?”
“Not especially.”
“I’ll save it for you.”
“That will not make me read it.”
“We’ll see.”
Sandrone looked at the row of paper animals on the sill. “Is this how you spend your days? Reading books with impossible planets, making paper animals, and giving the nurses extra work?”
“Sometimes I watch the weather.”
“You said the corridor was more interesting than the window.”
“You were in the corridor.”
Again, too direct. Columbina made compliments sound like simple facts, leaving Sandrone nowhere comfortable to put them.
“You have an entire hospital available for observation.”
“But only one Sandrone.”
“There should remain only one.”
“I agree. Two of you might argue constantly.”
Sandrone almost smiled. She hid it by reaching for the application folder on the table.
Columbina noticed.
“You kept this,” Sandrone said.
“I might revise it.”
“That would be pointless. It still lacks a rejection box.”
“I don’t like that outcome.” Columbina folded her arms and gave a small huff.
“Applications do not omit unfavorable possibilities because the applicant dislikes them.”
“They do when the applicant designed the form.”
“That invalidates the process.”
Columbina set down her cup. “Would you be my girlfriend if I added the box?”
“No.”
“What if I improve the pudding terms?”
“Still no.”
“Flowers?”
“Unnecessary.”
“A pony?”
Sandrone stared at her.
Columbina’s expression remained serenely innocent.
“Never offer me livestock.”
“I’ll add that to the next version.”
“There will be no next version.”
“I’m not sending it to you,” Columbina reminded her. “You came into my room and found it.”
The distinction was correct, which made it deeply annoying.
Sandrone put the folder down. “You appear to be recovering.”
“I ate half a piece of toast.”
“And some fruit.”
“You counted.”
“I noticed.”
“How is that different?”
Sandrone had no answer she was willing to provide.
The door opened, and Collei stepped inside. “Sorry to interrupt, but Doctor Baizhu wants all four students in the conference room.”
Sandrone stood at once. “I was about to leave.”
Collei glanced at the clock, then at her. “I’m sure you were.”
“Nothing about this was clinical.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
Columbina leaned back against the pillows. Some color had returned to her face, though exhaustion remained in the way she held herself. The tray was still more full than empty, but it was no longer untouched.
Sandrone gathered her notes.
“Thank you for staying,” Columbina said.
“You should thank Collei. She asked me to come.”
“I already did.”
“Then no further gratitude is required.”
“Goodbye, Sandrone.”
Sandrone reached the door before answering. “Goodbye.”
Behind her, Columbina said, “I’ll save the book for you.”
Sandrone did not turn around. “I am not reading it.”
“All right, Doctor Princess.”
“I have rejected that name.”
“I know.”
Sandrone left before the conversation could become more unreasonable.
Collei walked with her toward the conference room. The corridor was busier now, a food cart moving past them while two nurses discussed the next shift near the desk.
“You were in there for a while,” Collei said.
“She asked a lot of irrelevant questions.”
“And somehow answering them took half an hour?”
“Apparently.”
Collei smiled but had enough sense not to comment further.
Sandrone quickened her pace anyway.
* * *
Two days later, Sandrone found Columbina waiting near the garden doors at the end of the ward.
The doors were made almost entirely of glass. Beyond them, a paved path curved through low shrubs toward the hospital’s inner garden. In the middle stood a large tree with a broad canopy and a bench beneath it. The afternoon was mild, and moving leaves scattered sunlight across the path.
Barbara stood behind Columbina’s wheelchair with one hand on the handle. Serafina had been prepared for travel: the infusion pump was secured to a shorter portable pole fixed beside the chair, and its white paper bow had been retied beneath the handle. Columbina wore a dark cardigan over her hospital clothes, and the ribbon had returned to her hair.
She looked better than she had during their conversation, though not well enough for Sandrone to forget how much the room had dimmed around her two days earlier.
“You’re outside your room,” Sandrone said.
Columbina looked at the glass in front of her. “Not quite.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Usually.”
Barbara rested both hands on the wheelchair. “She’s been cleared for a short garden visit.”
“That is good.” Sandrone waited for them to move.
Neither did.
“Why are you both looking at me?”
Columbina folded her hands over the blanket on her lap. “Will you come with me?”
“I have work.”
Barbara looked pointedly at the papers in Sandrone’s hand. “Those are yesterday’s teaching notes.”
“They require further review.”
Tighnari happened to pass behind them with a chart tucked under one arm. “They really don’t.”
Sandrone glared at him.
He did not stop. “Enjoy the garden.”
Columbina watched him go. “I like him.”
“You should reconsider.”
Barbara nodded toward the doors. “You don’t have to come. I can take her.”
The words were sensible. They should have made refusal easier.
Through the glass, a few patients sat with relatives along the path. One man held a newspaper open while the woman beside him ignored it and watched a bird hop through the grass. The bench beneath the large tree remained empty.
Sandrone looked back at Columbina.
She did not plead or offer improved courtship terms. She simply waited.
“One visit,” Sandrone said.
Columbina brightened. “A date.”
“It is not a date.”
“There are two of us.”
“That is not the definition.”
“We’re going to a garden.”
“A hospital garden.”
“It has flowers.”
“Flowers are also present in funeral homes. Their existence does not determine the nature of an event.”
Barbara made a startled sound that became a cough.
Columbina tilted her head. “You make romance very difficult.”
“There is no romance.”
“Not with that attitude.”
Sandrone pushed open one of the doors before either of them could continue.
Barbara guided the wheelchair across the threshold. The change in air was small but immediate: cooler than the ward and carrying the smell of damp soil and cut grass instead of disinfectant.
Columbina closed her eyes when the breeze touched her face.
Sandrone noticed the way her shoulders loosened. She looked away before the moment could become something she was expected to understand.
They followed the curving path toward the tree. Barbara kept the pace slow. Halfway there, Columbina lifted one hand, and the wheelchair stopped beside a bed of white flowers.
No one remarked on the pause.
Columbina breathed carefully for a few moments, her face turned toward the flowers. When she lowered her hand, Barbara continued.
The bench beneath the tree was empty. A low stone border circled part of the trunk, and the shade beneath the branches moved over it in patches.
Barbara positioned the wheelchair beside the bench and checked the portable pump. “Ten minutes to start. If you feel tired or dizzy, we go back sooner.”
“I remember.”
“And no trying to turn ten into twenty.”
Columbina looked offended. “I would never.”
Barbara turned to Sandrone.
“She would,” Sandrone said.
“This is why everyone is glad you came.”
“Doctor Baizhu specifically told me I am not responsible for her compliance.”
“You aren’t.” Barbara smiled. “You are, however, very good at making negotiation unpleasant. The nursing staff appreciates your gift.”
“That is not a compliment.”
“It is from us.”
Barbara moved a short distance down the path, close enough to supervise without standing over them.
Sandrone remained beside the bench.
Columbina looked up at her. Sunlight caught the pink woven through her dark hair. “You can sit.”
“I am aware.”
“The bench was designed for it.”
“I understand the function of a bench.”
“Then something else is bothering you.”
“Nothing is bothering me.”
“You’re standing very sternly.”
“There is no such thing as standing sternly.”
“You are a perfect example.”
Sandrone glanced toward the glass doors. Staff moved through the corridor beyond them, close enough that she could return in less than a minute. No one had assigned her to be here. No one required her company. Columbina had eaten, taken her medication, and accepted the limits placed on the garden visit.
There was no task to complete and no useful purpose Sandrone could claim.
That, more than anything, made the empty place beside Columbina dangerous.
Columbina leaned her head back and looked into the branches. “Have you ever fallen asleep beneath a tree?”
“I have not.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“Why would I?”
“It might be nice.”
“Not while insects exist.”
“They exist indoors too.”
“Thank you. I had nearly forgotten.”
“You’re welcome.”
A breeze passed through the branches. Several leaves shook loose, and one landed on the blanket over Columbina’s knees. She picked it up by the stem and turned it between her fingers.
“I didn’t ask them to call you that day,” she said.
Sandrone knew which day she meant. “Collei said you asked whether I was there.”
“I did. But I wasn’t refusing things so they would bring you.”
“I know.”
Columbina looked at her. “Do you?”
“You were frightened or upset, so you tried to control the parts of the day still available to you. My involvement was incidental.”
“That sounds like a diagnosis.”
“It is an observation.”
“Is it accurate?”
“I cannot know. You still have not told me what happened.”
“No,” Columbina said quietly.
The leaf turned between her fingers again.
Sandrone could have asked. She had asked in the room and received nothing. The unanswered question remained between them, but here it felt less like a locked door than one Columbina had chosen not to open.
Sandrone sat on the bench.
Columbina smiled.
“This is not a date,” Sandrone said.
“All right.”
“You agree too easily.”
“I’m conserving my strength.”
The answer might have been a joke. Sandrone could not tell, so she did not smile.
After a moment, Columbina held out the leaf.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Keep it.”
“Why?”
“It fell during our first date.”
“This is not a date.”
“Then it’s only a leaf.”
Sandrone looked at the small green thing in Columbina’s hand. It had a tear along one edge and no distinguishing features. Keeping it would be absurd.
She took it anyway.
Columbina turned toward the garden, satisfied without saying so. Beyond the tree, the hospital doors opened and closed around other people’s arrivals and departures.
Sandrone placed the leaf between the pages of her teaching notes so it would not be crushed.
Then she sat beside Columbina until Barbara told them it was time to go.