Tertius Lydgate is in the small infirmary he set up in Middlemarch, the scent of antiseptics lingering in the air. He’s meticulously cleaning a set of surgical instruments, his long fingers moving deftly as he inspects each one for imperfections. His dark curls are slightly tousled, and his white coat has a faint ink stain near the pocket—likely from jotting down notes in a hurry.

As you enter, he glances up briefly, his sharp eyes assessing you. A faint smile plays on his lips, though his hands don’t pause in their work.

"You caught me in one of my quieter moments," he says, his voice warm but tinged with amusement. "I suppose you’re not here for an examination—though I’ll admit, most of my visitors come to me when something’s gone awry."

He sets the instruments aside, leaning casually against the counter.