A massive bouquet of toffee coloured roses was delivered to the surgery on Monday morning, together with a large box of assorted desserts, which Viola was obviously supposed to share with Fenton and Snezha.

"One thing for sure, Holyoake has an excellent taste in pudding," Fenton said, chewing a rose water macaron. "God, I miss Miss Rosa's baking."

"You do know you can come back there any time, don't you, Alan?" Viola said with a laugh.

She still wasn't sure whether she'd have any sweets but she enjoyed their small tea party in the waiting room.

"Never," the Welshman said firmly and picked up a bite-sized piece of ginger cake. "Every time I come in, she rushes to me and... touches my arm."

Snezha snorted into her mini pain au chocolat. The very tip of her nose was now covered in powdered sugar, and Viola gave her colleagues an affectionate look. Some sort of joyful contentment filled her heart. Perhaps, she'd been quite wrong all along: she wasn't alone at all. She stretched her hand and picked up a dainty triangle of phyllo pastry filled with feta and spinach. She bit into it, her mouth filing with buttery and zesty flavours. Fenton was right, Rhys knew his treats.

On the same morning Viola received Klaus' bloodwork results. Anything that a human being needed to have in their blood was virtually absent from his - while all the alarming markers were there. She shook her head and immediately picked up her phone. The number he'd given them was disconnected, and Viola dialled the Hall, since his Uncle was his emergency contact. Ms. Atieno informed Viola that Mr. Bjornsson was out of the county that week and promised to ask him to call Viola back at his first convenience. Viola emailed Klaus, assuming he would have some sort of a device, but received no answer from him. By mid-morning Wednesday she decided he could be moved from the patient category to the category of 'unreasonable family members one is allowed to pester.' She had no appointments in the afternoon, and arranged time away from the surgery with Fenton. The Welshman didn't ask for any clarification, giving her a cheeky look.

"Trust me, Alan," Viola grumbled, pulling on her coat. "I'd very much prefer to be heading for a nice cuppa and some pudding, as you seem to assume. As opposed to dragging myself into the Fleckney woods to wrangle yet another uncooperative male into taking care of his health."

Fenton's face grew serious.

"Should I go with you? I'm concerned for Bjornsson's mental state," he said gravely.

"Thank you, Alan. But it won't be necessary." Viola checked her keys and her phone in her handbag. "I believe I've established enough rapport with him. If not, I'll just drag him back to the surgery by the collar of his lopapeysa. Judging by his test results, he won't be able to put up much of a fight."

Fenton shook his head. "Please, drive carefully," he added. "It's been snowing for the past three hours."

"It is mad weather, isn't it?" Viola said absentmindedly. "The last February snowstorm, I assume."

***

According to the information Niklas had given the surgery, he was staying in the Ekollon Cottage. It was a small cabin, in the East of the Bjornsson estate, hidden deep in the darkest part of the woods. Ten years ago it had been empty, and no one had lived in it for ages. The children in Fleckney, of course, always thought it was inhabited by the Witch of the Fleckney Moors - there were no moors in Fleckney - and there were ghost stories told about it. The only way to access it was through the Ferguson farm, one of Bjornsson's tenants.

Viola drove her Panda along the bumpy road, when her phone rang. Not willing to risk it and to slide into the ditch, dragged by the loose snow on the side, she simply braked and stopped the car.

"Hello," she said to Rhys.

"Hey," he said. His voice was serious. "Where are you?"

Viola's first urge was to answer 'why?' or 'what happened?' because she didn't quite appreciate his demanding tone, but she reminded herself that Rhys was Rhys - and also, that she was Viola, which meant, based on the previous stats, that he probably meant well, while she was assuming the worst and bristling for no reason.

"I'm making a home visit," she said.

She wasn't trying to be vague. It was simply the matter of patient confidentiality.

"A snowstorm is coming," he said, and then muttered something angry under his breath. "I'm driving into Fleckney right now, from Abernathy, and it's following me. I'd say about half an hour. Can you go back to the surgery?"

"I'm still on my way there," she said, leaned forward, and looked at the sky through the windshield. It was dark grey and low. "I'll try to be quick."

"Call me when you're back, would you?" he grumbled, said a quick goodbye, and hung up without waiting for her answer.

Viola shook her head, feeling more amused than irritated. She imagined he was now calling all other Holyoakes in the same overbearing disgruntled manner. Viola chuckled and started the engine again. After all, she'd chosen him - twice - so she might as well look at the bright side, she reminded herself. Expecting Rhys not to be Rhys would be daft.

By the time she finally reached the Ekollon Cottage, it was snowing heavily. She wrapped in her blanket scarf over her coat, pulled on her hat and gloves, and climbed out of her car. It was obvious Klaus hadn't cleaned the snow around the cottage even once this Winter. It reached Viola's knees, and even mid-thigh in some spots. She suddenly wondered if he was there, but then she saw light in one of the tiny windows.

She plodded through the snow and finally climbed the steps to the front door. She knocked on it firmly, assuming there would be no doorbell. No sound came from inside, and Viola knocked again.

"Niklas!" she shouted. "It's Viola Holyoake. I know you're inside! Open the door, please."

The wind was getting stronger and stronger, blowing in gusts now, throwing sharp handfuls of snowflakes into her eyes, and jerking at her scarf.

"Niklas!" There was some noise inside, but perhaps she imagined it. "Niklas!"

Normally she would consider her duty fulfilled and would head back to town, but she felt stubborn. He'd asked for her help! He was obviously desperate, and suddenly she worried. Without mood regulators and ongoing emotional support, he was walking a thin line, considering the amount of pain he was in.

And then the door opened. He stood on the threshold, holding on to the frame with his left hand. He looked awful: seemingly even thinner than when she'd seen him, his skin ashen pale, deep dark shadows under his eyes.

"Good day, Dr. Holyoake." He was perhaps aiming for his usual lazy drawl, but instead he sounded like he had a severe case of laryngitis. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"It's not going to be a pleasurable visit, Niklas," Viola said sternly. "I've been trying to reach you to discuss your test results, but it seems one needs to physically hunt you down to talk to you. Are you intending to let me in?"

"I'd rather not," he said. "My dwelling is in no state to entertain visitors."

"I'll live," Viola said. "Let me in, please."

He watched her for a few seconds and then looked behind her.

"I say, you should start heading back to town, Dr. Holyoake," he said and gave her a taunting look. "Your poor automobile is already almost covered in snow. You're in danger of getting stuck somewhere between here and Fleckney Woulds."

"I'm in danger of being buried in snow on your porch, Niklas," Viola quipped back and brushed a fair amount of snow off the top of her hat. "I hope you have a kettle inside. I'm dying for a cuppa."

He made a derisive huff noise but stepped aside letting her in.

"You're even more pig-headed than your husband," he grumbled.

Viola threw him an amused look.

"I'm not married, Klaus," she said.

"Oh spare me the aloof mien, Dr. Holyoake," he dismissed. "You two are like a pair of slippers. Perfect for each other and never truly apart."

Viola laughed and looked around. Contrary to what he said - and what she'd apprehensively anticipated - the cabin wasn't at all in disarray. If anything, it looked freshly cleaned, everything in its place. It was bare and lacked any comforts or niceties. Inside, she saw one large room, with a kitchenette in the further end, and a set of steep wooden steps leading upstairs, into a mezzanine with a bed. There was cover thrown over the bedding on the sofa, and she assumed that was where he slept. It would be too hard for him to walk up. The kitchenette was pristine, all the counters clean and organised but not bare.

"Could I have a cup of tea, please?" she said. "And is this that Russian's bread? The one who lives at Ferguson's place?" she drew out and pointed at a loaf on his cutting board. "I recognise the pattern on top, a bird on a branch. It's quite distinct."

"Her name is Anya Rosenfeld," he said haughtily and walked to the kitchenette. "She used to be married to Ferguson's brother. Have you met him? Years ago he was a bassist in Sam Holyoake's band. A spineless alcoholic. We have so much in common these days," he added venomously and started filling the kettle.

"You're sober at the moment," Viola said, pulling off her jacket and taking off her boots.

"I ran out of my supplies," he said and dropped the kettle on the only hob of his little electric stove.

"You've mentioned you have financial difficulties recently," Viola said levelly and sat down on a chair near a large wooden table that stood between the kitchenette and the drawing room area. "I assume it affects your diet, Klaus, which needs to be addressed and changed. Your body at the moment isn't ready for any sort of surgery, even the smallest one. The one you're asking for is intrusive and risky. No surgeon will accept you in your current state."

"I have money," he grumbled without turning to her. "My Uncle has issued an allowance to me."

"Then it's time for grocery shopping," Viola said. "Do you have any fruit in your house?"

"I have a cat named Persimmon visit me from time to time," he said with a chuckle, and for the first time since Viola had met him at the Dance, a warm expression ran through his features. He was almost charming for a second, the shadow of the man she'd known years ago. He turned and met her eyes. "It has been a... difficult week," he admitted grudgingly. "The pain has been worse, and it's harder to– All the everyday things are harder. And without a drink–"

"Why aren't you drinking?" Viola asked softly.

"I have... guests," he answered reluctantly - and involuntarily looked at the loaf of bread.

"It's a good thing. It means you aren't as spineless as you think you are," Viola said. "Figuratively speaking. Physically, your spine is in quite a trouble. I've seen your X-ray images."

He gave out a deadpan 'ha-ha' and leaned against the counter. All his movements were utterly stiff, and colour had drained from his face even more now.

"Well, you see, Dr. Holyoake," he started in his usual acidic tone.

And suddenly the lights in the cottage went out.