Francesca was coming home from Maudsley Hospital tomorrow night. He’d ordered some flowers delivered, and he intended to make a second trip to the ward this evening if he ever managed to escape the intermimble wranglings of the House. Doctor van der Merwe, the smooth and unctuous South African doctor, had reassured him of Francesca’s progress in a tone of voice that strongly suggested he believed that most people had IQs smaller than their boot sizes, and that they needed medical matters explained in words of two syllables at most. Geraint’s testy reference to his own degree in neuropsychology hadn’t made a dent.