Fred woke with a yelp, pain shooting through him as his eyes snapped open. His arms were pinned. Turning his head, he saw several people restraining him.

Some noticed he was awake. "Sorry, Your Grace," one said, "but I must do this to fix your arm."

The pain kept him alert. He glanced at the wall clock, then at the doctor. "How much longer?"

"About thirty minutes," the doctor replied, carefully applying a splint.

"Is it broken? Can you save my arm?" Fred demanded.

The doctor shook his head. "Your Grace, it's not broken, but dislocated."

"Dislocated?"

"A strange force dislocated your shoulder joint without damaging the bone. I still need to apply a splint and bandage it. Avoid using your arm for a while afterward." The doctor frowned, continuing his work.

"Why the splint if it's not broken?" Fred's impatience flared. "I haven't got thirty minutes! I have things to do!"

He struggled against the restraints. "Get your hands off me!"

"Your Grace, please," someone pleaded, holding firm.

"I have urgent matters! Remove your hands, or you will be punished!" Fred's voice was sharp.

Alarmed, the others released him. He sat up, flexing his legs, then cautiously moved his injured arm. It still hurt, but less intensely than before.

Dismissing the injury as minor, he started to get up. Then he remembered something and turned to the doctor. "I may have been poisoned. Do you know anything about that?"

Puzzled, the doctor shook his head. "I… didn't know that."

"You call yourself a doctor?" Fred's frustration boiled over. Taking a deep breath to regain control—his patience had been wearing thin lately—he said, "Draw my blood."

"Huh?" The doctor quickly understood. "Right away, sir!"

He summoned a nurse, then drew blood for analysis. The needle prick stung, but the humiliation was far worse.

Illness was rare for him; injections were few and far between. Yet, here he was, having his blood drawn because of Lily.