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You take a moment to choose your next words carefully. Rumours might be flying around, but that's no reason to casually confirm them. The truth will get out eventually, you're sure of that, but you don't see any reason to hasten it. “When you last saw him, how did my father seem?” you ask, quietly impressed at how mild, how disinterested, your voice sounds, “Was he ill?”
“How was he..?” Miranda wonders to herself, “Now, that's a harder question to answer than you might think. Whenever I thought I had an idea of his mood, his mindset, he was showing me something else. He seemed desperate, I suppose, if you absolutely MUST sum it up in a single word. Desperate, but somehow at peace with himself as well. As if he'd finally reached some terrible decision.”
And then, you presume, he was dead not long after that meeting. Maybe he already knew what was coming, and he'd accepted his fate. “Was he always alone when he came here?” you ask next, “Did he ever come with Master Dunblane?”
“There was one time when they both came on the same day, but that seemed to be a coincidence. Not a very happy one, either – they could barely look at each other in the waiting room,” Miranda frowns suddenly, “And if you're about to ask me about Master Dunblane's confidential records...”
“I am, actually,” you tell her, “It could be important. My father... got himself into some trouble, and I've got the unenviable task of picking up the pieces. Master Dunblane might be involved too, so... tell me. Please.”
The doctor stares at you for a long moment, then heaves a heavy sigh. “If this comes back on me, I'm going to send you a very angry letter,” she warns, “But Master Dunblane often came to me with sleep complaints. He claimed to be suffering from terrible nightmares, and hoped I'd be able to make them go away.”
“And...” Elle asks, breaking her silence, “Could you?”
“I told him to talk to a priest,” Miranda remarks dryly, “I know my limits. Aside from that, I offered Laudanum as well but he wouldn't take it. Maybe he knew it wouldn't work. Eventually, he stopped coming.”
“And what about Gratia?” you ask, before the conversation can get even more off-track, “When WAS the last time you saw her?”
“Would've been the same time I saw you. You both came down with that wicked fever. Your father really thought you might die, you know. Even with everything that happened afterwards, I never saw him more frightened than he was on that day,” the doctor shrugs, “And then I heard that he packed you both off to Coral House. Figure that one out.”
You've spent the last ten years trying to do just that, and you're no farther forwards.
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