Simon finished smoothing the plaster-soaked bandage around Freya’s left wrist. “At least it isn’t your gun hand,” he said dryly. “And you should have told me.”

“You were busy.”

“You do realise you’re making me go grey. Look. Grey hairs.” He indicated his temple, and Freya could see a silver thread.

“I’m sure Kaylee thinks it’s distinguished.”

“She laughed.”

“Well, that’s Kaylee.”

“And I would be grateful if you didn’t shoot my sister. Not until I’ve had the chance to remonstrate with her.”

“I won’t.” Freya could feel the cold support turning warm at the top and bottom of the plaster, but the wrist itself was still numb. “It wasn’t her fault. She’s just stronger than she knows.”

“She should have tried a reasoned argument.”

“I wouldn’t let her.” She sighed. “My fault as much as hers.”

“And I conjure she’s gonna be feeling guilty about it,” Mal put in from where he was leaning against the counter, his arms crossed.

“So did you finish arguing with Inara?” Simon asked as he cleaned up the debris.

“How did you know …”

“Mal, everyone heard. I think there may have been people on Magdelene who now know that Inara’s sick.”

Mal coloured, and for once it showed just above his shirt collar. “She should have told us.”

“Yes, she should. But there’s no good crying over spilled martinis.”

“Milk,” Freya said absently, testing the weight of the plaster on her wrist. “It’s crying over spilt milk.”

“And my wife should know, she’s so full of these little homilies,” Mal commented. He smiled a little when she stuck her tongue out at him.

“Oh, I know,” Simon admitted. “Except where Orlando at MedAcad was concerned. And he used to cry a lot when he spilled his drink.”

“Is that all you did? Just sat around imbibing?”

“Yes, Mal,” Simon deadpanned. “And we learned all our surgical skills by osmosis.”

“I hope you ain’t waiting for me to ask what that means. You’ll be dead and dust afore I do.”

“Stop that.” Simon swatted Freya’s hand away from where