Chapter 12
Nicole’s POV
Maple had decided that the correct way to eat breakfast was standing up.
I had given up arguing about it a few minutes ago on the grounds that I had larger problems and also because Rosy was eating with perfect composure and clearly felt that her brother’s choices were beneath comment, which was its own kind of character revelation.
“Sit down,” I said, without real force.
“I’m not tired,” Maple said, as if that were relevant.
“Sitting isn’t for tired people. Sit down.”
He sat, with the long-suffering air of someone making a profound social sacrifice, and I turned back to the counter and the coffee had gone lukewarm while I’d been negotiating.
Amber arrived at nine, knocking twice in the quick way she always did before letting herself in. She was twenty- two, the youngest researcher on the floor, and she had arrived at the institute months ago with a graduate thesis that Parkville had described as the most promising work he had seen in a decade.
She had also, within approximately her first two weeks, developed the kind of quiet devoted regard for me that made her reorganize her entire schedule around the twins’ nursery pickup without ever being asked and leave annotated copies of relevant papers outside my office door with small handwritten notes in the margins.
I had told her twice that she didn’t need to do any of it but she had continued doing all of it.
She came in now with two folders under one arm and a paper bag from the good bakery three buildings over in the other, and Rosy abandoned her careful breakfast immediately.
“Amber brought the good ones,” Rosy announced.
“Good morning to you too,” Amber said, already laughing, already crouching to Rosy’s level with the ease of someone who had spent enough time with my children to know exactly how to meet them. Maple arrived beside her with targeted speed and she produced a second pastry from the bag
I watched them and felt the particular fond ache of a life that was genuinely good, genuinely mine, and therefore genuinely worth protecting.
“The Aldridge notes are in the blue folder,” Amber said, straightening and looking at me with the slightly too- attentive expression she wore when she thought something was wrong and was deciding whether she was allowed to ask. “And Professor Parkville wants the preliminary summary by Thursday.”
“I know,” I said. “Thank you, Amber.”
She nodded and then turned back to the twins.
Marlon arrived a few minutes later. The twins got to him before he had fully cleared the doorway. He spent the next few minutes on the floor with Maple trying to climb his back and Rosy sitting on the couch watching the whole thing with her arms folded, occasionally issuing corrections. Marlon bore it with good humor as he always did.
When I caught his eye over Maple’s head I could tell he had something to say.
“Twins,” I said. “Go with Amber.”
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Rosy looked at me. “Two stories.”
“One,” I said.
“Two,” she said, without blinking.
Amber, standing in the doorway, said she didn’t mind two. Rosy accepted this as a satisfactory resolution and slid off the couch. Maple abandoned Marlon immediately and followed his sister, which was how it always went as the door closed behind them.
Marlon sat at the small table as I stayed standing.
“Good news and bad news,” he said. “Which first?”
“Good.”
“We have our three patients. Confirmed, consented, medically cleared.” He paused. “Professor Parkville’s preliminary scans came back this morning so he qualifies without question – the protocol should work well for him.”
I loved the sound of that, I loved being within reach of something that might help him. “And the other two?”
“Diana Ashford,” he said. “Luna of North Maple. She’s been quietly deteriorating for years – the bond trauma from the separation, compounding over decades. Her son submitted her paperwork himself, he wants her in.” I let that settle for a moment. Three patients, a number we had been working toward for years, the number the protocol required before we could move to the next phase.
I nodded. “And the third,”
“That is the bad news.” Marlon’s expression shifted just enough. “Tracy Caesar.”
The kitchen was very quiet.
“Tate’s mother,” I said.
“Yes.”
I turned away from him, which was not a composed thing to do and I did it anyway, moving to the window, putting some distance between my face and his ability to read it.
Outside, the institute grounds were getting their early-morning light.
“She qualifies,” Marlon said, behind me. “Her neurological deterioration matches the bond severance profile precisely, her physician submitted supporting documentation so she meets every criteria.”
“I know.”
“Nicole.”
“I know she qualifies, Marlon.” I turned back. “That isn’t the question.”
He waited.
“The question is what happens when we accept her,” I said. “Because she doesn’t come alone. She is Tracy Caesar and Tracy Caesar’s son is Tate and Tate has been at this institute for just a few days and has almost destabilized my peaceful life within a short time.” I pressed the edge of the counter. “He already met with you.”
“He was respectful,” Marlon said. “He’s read the methodology, all of it.”
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I looked at the ceiling for a moment and then back at him. “What did you tell him about me?”
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“That you don’t take outside meetings and I handle representation.” He paused. “He said to tell you that whatever you decided, he respected it.”
Marlon was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully: “You don’t have to take her, Nicole. It’s your project, that decision belongs to you.”
I looked at him.
“I mean it,” he said. “No one on the team would fault you, I wouldn’t fault you.”
It had taken us years to find willing participants. Survivors of severed mate bonds were not easy to reach, and even when we found ones who qualified, most declined. The trauma was too recent, or too deep, or they had spent so long just surviving it that being studied felt like one more thing being taken from them. Every patient we had came at a cost time, patience, trust built slowly over months.
If I turned Tracy Caesar away I wasn’t just declining one patient. I was dismantling the trial.
Through the half open door I could hear Amber’s voice, low and rhythmic already on the first story, Rosy’s murmured commentary appearing at intervals, Maple asking a clarifying question about dragons.
Amber, who had rearranged her entire life around this research. Who had told me once, quietly, that the trial bonus would let her finally help her mother with the mortgage, who was in the next room reading bedtime stories to my children because she believed in this work.
“I need this trial to succeed,” I said, after a moment. “The whole team does. Years of work, years of funding negotiations, Parkville’s legacy.” I said it slowly. “This isn’t just mine to protect.”
“No,” Marlon said. “It isn’t.”
I was quiet for a long time. Then “Send her the intake paperwork,”
Marlon exhaled. “Nicole”
“Tell the Dr In charge to coordinate the preliminary scans, I want full neurological imaging before she starts the protocol, and I want to review the results myself before we proceed.”
“You won’t be in the room with her,” Marlon said carefully.
“Not if I can avoid it.” I straightened. “I’ll manage her case through the team, with full oversight and without direct contact unless the protocol requires it.” I met his eyes. “I can do this. I’ve been doing harder things than this for years.”
“I know you have,” he said.
“Good.” I moved toward the door. “Stay for breakfast, the pastries are already cold and Maple will be insufferable if there are leftovers.”
Marlon almost smiled. “There’s one more thing.”
I stopped.
“Tate asked someone to look into Dr. Carter,” he said, quietly, “Professionally, apparently. He said he wants to understand how she thinks.”
“How long do I have?” I asked.
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“I don’t know,” Marlon said. “But I don’t think it’s as long as we’d like.”
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