'But it's Sunday.' Annaliese protested, her eyes heavy with… with what? Disappointment? Suspicion?

'My dear, ill health doesn't take weekends off.'

'Don't patronise – ' She started again in a low raw voice, conscious of the broad back of Constancio, listening. 'But you're never at home, never, nowadays. Why don't you move in, set up your bed there?'

'A most amusing suggestion, my dear, but really -'

' Salvador,' her voice brooked no further argument. 'It can wait 'til tomorrow. Nothing is so urgent.'

'You don't understand. The new American hospital's providing stiff competition. All these contract surgeons they're bringing over. I'm only thinking of our future.' The lie sounded feeble and inept; he felt he could taste it in his mouth, a sour ashy thing. He backed away without a further word, waved and smiled and strode off up the Calle Real towards his hospital.

Delphine Sieverance had made a slow but sure recovery from her operation. The first week had been the worst with the agonising fear of peritonitis on everyone's mind, but as time passed and she regained her strength it became clear that the operation had been a total success. She had been in the San Jeronimo now for almost two weeks, in a private room, and was now able to swing herself out of bed and take a few shuffling steps across the floor to the window. Carriscant saw her every day without fail, even if it was only for a matter of a few minutes, but rarely alone. Sieverance had employed an American nurse to sit with her at nights and he himself was often there. She had many visits from friends, also, and the news of the operation, its danger and her steady recovery had already brought Carriscant an increase in American patients. His renown had spread and he was busier than ever. But the important factor for him was her presence: she was there, close, under his roof. He could climb the stairs, knock on her door, take her temperature, consult her charts, order her dressing changed. He could be near her, he could be with her whenever he wished. The itch could always be scratched, the craving always satisfied. But now it was the thought of her leaving that began to weigh on him. Sieverance had asked if she might be home for Christmas and Carriscant said that he was sure it would be possible. The very fact that she was beginning to walk again made it difficult for him to insist on her staying in the hospital any longer.

He climbed the stairs to her room and met a nurse at her door, leaving, carrying a tray with the remains of a meal on it. He knocked and entered when she called. She sat up in bed, propped against pillows, her dull red hair down on her shoulders, an open book in her lap. Through the open window he could see over the huge overgrown city walls to a portion of the botanical garden with its ill-tended scrubby, dusty allies bordered by a turbid brown loop of the Pasig. Lunchtime smoke rose from the kitchens of Quiapo beyond. There was a haze this morning, he thought, humid, it might have been a day in June.

'Mrs Sieverance, how are you?'

'Better than ever.' She smiled at him. She was always pleased to see him, he knew. The man who had saved her life: she trusted him, her friend, her saviour. 'I sat in the chair to read. I got in and out of bed. Not a twinge.'

'We'll have those stitches out soon.'

'Can't wait.'

'May I?' He laid a palm on her brow. These excuses to touch, how much longer did he have? Her brown confident eyes looked up at him. He reached for her wrist and proceeded to take her pulse. Her lips were slightly parted and he saw the pink tip of her tongue moisten her front teeth with saliva. Her hair was thick, dry, no shine, almost matt. Her nightgown was pale blue cotton. Her bed jacket was quilted in small puffy diamonds, badged with embroidered crimson crosses. He had to speak.

'Henry James,' he said, pointing to the book. It was Portrait of a Lady. 'I've only read Daisy Miller.' He let go her wrist.

'I met him once, you know,' she said. 'In Switzerland, in Geneva a few years ago. I was introduced by a friend of mine who knew him well. Constance Fenimore Woolson. She was an extraordinary person, wonderful. Do you know her novels?'

'No, I'm afraid not. Out here we fall behind.'

'I'll lend you them.'

'Thank you, I'd like that.' The plan grew, flourished, in an instant. An exchange of reading matter. Annaliese was always reading novels, the house was full of them. 'Were you and Colonel Sieverance travelling through Europe?'

'No, I wasn't with him. He'd – ' She was about to go on, and say something a little uncomplimentary, he guessed, but she stopped herself. 'We weren't married then. No, I was with a friend and her aunt.' She smiled at him, a little mockingly, he thought. 'Colonel Sieverance and I have only been married four years. We can do some things on our own, us women, you know. Some of us are even capable of buying a steamer ticket, taking a ship across the ocean and travelling in foreign lands.'

'You mustn't make fun of me, Mrs Sieverance,' he said. 'I'm only a simple surgeon.'

Her shout of laughter both startled and thrilled him. It was a mock-indignant blare, unselfconscious and raucous. He heard it ring in his ears like a hosannah.

He grinned back happily at her. Like a loon. Like a jolly galoot.

She frowned suddenly. 'You mustn't do that to me, Dr Carriscant. I felt that.' She reached her hand beneath the sheet to touch her side and twisted round to ease her position. Carriscant thought he detected, in the way her bed jacket moved, the roll of her breasts beneath her nightgown as she shifted from one hip to another. He felt an utter helplessness suffuse him, in the face of his feelings for this woman, a massive impotency.

'Simple surgeon, indeed,' she said, wagging her finger at him. 'I won't accept that for one minute. Not for one minute.'

At that moment the nurse returned and he said he had to leave.

'That novelist you mentioned. What was her name?'

'Fenimore Woolson. I'll get my husband to bring the book.'

'No,' he said too quickly. 'I mean, ah, no hurry. I'll have to come to your home occasionally once you've moved back. I can pick it up any time.'

He paused, suddenly fearful: this was the wrong note, exactly the wrong note upon which to leave. Too familiar, too full of assumptions. He had to think of something else and, as usually happens at moments of pressure, his brain came up with banalities.

'Is there anything you would like?' he said. 'Anything special I can fetch for you. I don't know, I -'

'Well, there is, you know,' she said. 'I asked Jepson but he had no luck. I have this craving for sugared violets. Crystallised violets, you know? A complete craving. They're my favourite thing. I brought pounds with me but I've finished them all. I sit here reading and want to dip my fingers into a bowl of sugared violets from time to time. I find my hand drifting out into mid-air. Do you think you could find them in Manila?' She looked at him slyly, teasing. 'I'd be even more in your debt, Dr Carriscant.'

'I'll do my – ' He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous, suddenly moved. The air seemed lambent with potential, all at once. 'I'll see what I can do.' He managed a fast smile and then was gone.