“Ouch.”

“Sorry.” Dr Gerald Barkin shifted his grip slightly on Zoe’s shoulder, lifting her arm and checking the range of her extension. “You know, you have excellent muscle tone,” he said appreciatively, gently manipulating his fingertips. “But that doesn’t mean you can ‘will’ yourself better.”

“I know. Our ship’s medic said the same.”

“And I imagine you listen to him about as much as you’re likely to listen to me.”

That morning at breakfast Freya had told Zoe, in no uncertain terms, that she was to get herself to the hospital and follow Simon’s orders, and accompanied her to the infirmary door just to make sure.

On the way down the corridor, the ankle-deep carpet muffling their footsteps and while the rest of the girls were off exploring the boutiques on the third and fourth levels, Freya’d also told her what Mal had finally deigned to tell her about the trip from Aberdeen – her words – but between them they decided not to inform the others: there was nothing any of them could do but worry, and this was supposed to be a holiday.

“’Sides, we both know that if Kaylee finds out her husband has been a little bit shot, nothing in the ‘verse is gonna stop her marching straight to the bridge and demanding the captain turn the liner around,” Freya had added.

“That would be fun to see.”

“For us, maybe. I think the captain might not find it so amusing.”

“Pity.”

She’d stopped outside the door that announced, in discreet gold lettering, that the doctor was in. “No more procrastinating.”

“Not sure I shouldn’t be taking offence at you suggesting I am doing any such thing.”

Freya grinned. “Get inside.”

“You’re not my sergeant.”

“In absentia …”

Zoe had glared at the other woman, but Freya didn’t back down.

Now only the tightness of the skin around her eyes showed Zoe’s discomfort. “I need to exercise. Otherwise that excellent muscle tone you like so much will go to pot.”

Barkin tutted, rotating her upper arm. “And if you’re not sensible you might end up never bei