Page 77 of Prescription for Sin

The smart thing would be to stay in Rochester, to keep her distance from the one man who could cause so much anguish, to live with this dull ache she’d become accustomed to.

But even as she thought it, she was already composing a list of instructions for her replacement. Because beneath her anger, beneath the hurt and betrayal, one truth remained. He needed her, and she would not have him suffer alone.

Emma pressed the ring to her lips. “Damn you, Everett Moreland,” she whispered as Alexi waited patiently.

Rising, she gathered her medical bag while her mind kept straying to Everett. Had she failed him by leaving, or had he failed her by not trusting her enough to share his burden? The memory of their parting weighed heavily on her heart, a tangle of love and regret she couldn’t quite unravel.

The cemetery was silent save for the whisper of leaves and the distant toll of church bells. Everett knelt before the familiar headstone, his fingers tracing the letters of his sister's name. The marble felt cool against his skin, grounding him in this moment of decision.

"I've brought you roses," he said softly. "The pink ones you loved so much. Remember how you used to say they were too pretty to die? You'd try to press every single one, until your room smelled like a perfume shop."

A robin landed on the headstone, tilting its head as if listening.

"I'm about to do something... Something that will change everything. Father will never forgive me. The Moreland name, all the power and privilege it carries, it'll be worth nothing after today."

He arranged the roses carefully, buying time as he gathered his thoughts.

"I've been thinking about that last day. How you begged for me to come to you, and I... I didn’t because Father said it wasn’t safe. Because I trusted him more than my own eyes, my own conscience."

His voice caught. "Emma reminds me of you sometimes. That same fire, that refusal to accept comfortable lies."

Standing, he brushed dirt from his knees. "Mother used to say you were the brave one. 'That girl would storm heaven itself to right a wrong,' she'd say. Do you recall when Father dismissed Mrs Hayes for being too ill to work, you followed him around the house for days, reciting Bible verses about charity until he relented?" He chuckled silently as wind stirred the roses, carrying their sweet scent upward.

"But I understand now what Mother meant about courage. It's about being terrified and acting anyway. Emma showed me that. And you... You showed me the price of silence."

He touched the headstone one last time, feeling the finality of this moment.

"I choose truth now, Mary-Anne. No matter the cost. I think... I think you'd be proud. You and Mother both. And maybe someday, when he understands why I had to do this, Father will be proud too."

The robin took flight, startling him. He watched it disappear into the darkening sky, carrying his words into the gathering dusk.

"Goodbye, sister."

Chapter twenty-three

The Storm

Everett stood before Parliament, his father’s letters heavy in his coat pocket like stones. Faces in the gallery blurred together. MPs, journalists, medical board members all waiting to see the Royal Physician’s son commit what many would view as patricide.

Lord Salisbury had arranged this hearing swiftly and masterfully. Each newspaper's exposé had built upon the last, creating a wave of public outrage that even the most resistant politicians couldn't ignore. Now, with London demanding answers about the state of its water supply, Everett would deliver the final blow.

He began with the workers' testimonies. His voice remained steady as he detailed the pattern of faulty installations, the deliberate use of inferior materials, the threats against those who spoke out. But it was his father's financial records that drew shocked murmurs from the gallery.

"These documents"—he held up a thick ledger—"show systematic falsification of mortality records. Payments to physicians for altered death certificates. Either my father or Mr Snowden's signatures appear on every transaction."

A rustle went through the chamber. In the front row, Dr Moreland's face had gone grey.

"Furthermore," Everett continued, withdrawing more papers, "their private correspondence reveals they knowingly installed faulty pipes in populous districts while charging full prices for superior materials."

He laid out the paper trail methodically: memos, bank records, letters proving their fraud. Each document added another nail to London Water Works' demise.

"My final evidence concerns attempts to silence those investigating these irregularities." Everett's voice hardened. "Including my wife, Miss Emma Brown at the time, whose careful documentation of mortality rates in affected districts raised questions about the company's practices. Her records, combined with workers' testimonies and financial documents, reveal a pattern of negligence and fraud that cannot be ignored."

From the gallery, he caught Emma's eyes, his heart breaking at the sight of her. She sat between Helen and Michael, her face pale but composed. She placed a hand on her heart, the first acknowledgment of understanding between them since that night in Rochester.

"I submit all of this evidence to Parliament's consideration," Everett concluded formally. "And I call for immediate action to protect London's citizens from these unconscionable business practices."

The gallery erupted into chaos as Everett finished his testimony. His father’s face had gone from grey to mottled red while Snowden appeared to be having trouble breathing. Members of Parliament were shouting questions, reporters scribbling frantically, and through it all, Emma sat perfectly still.