Page 10 of Beecham’s Infirmary for the Affluent Afflicted (My Darling Malady #1)

IN WHICH FILES ARE FOUND, TEETH ARE TAKEN AS TITHE, AND THE BODY MUST BE brOKEN TO REAP THE BLOOD

“ G ood day to you. Thank you.” I wave to the driver that had appeared at the end of the square. He didn’t say much, and it wasn’t a long drive, but I’m grateful for the lift.

Lewis I wasn’t trying to stare, but the swarm of buzzing flies is deafening in my right ear.

Part of his bone is visible toward the front, where flies, gnats, and a cluster of squirming maggots make their home.

Some of the flying insects have stuck to the pus leaking down his leg.

I should’ve stopped there and asked his name, what he was being seen for—evidently not his weeping wound—and hauled him out to a real hospital.

Instead, I stumble into the wall lost for words. I exaggerate a few coughs to mask my retching, which must work, because one of the nurses grips my shoulders and steers me into the first room around the left corner.

They attempt to robe me right away, grabbing at my waistcoat and trousers, but I protest, unsettled.

They’re strong, and continue as if they hadn’t heard me; I’m so taken aback by this, it takes me a few tries—maybe they speak another language—but I shout with everything in my arsenal.

English, French, Latin, Occitan, Spanish…

even my grandmother’s native tongue of Breton.

Still, they tug at me until I secure two of their wrists in one hand and shove a finger in the others’ faces.

“I am fevered,” I snarl gently, as if they don’t see my undershirt stuck to my armpits, or the sweat curling and sticking my hair to my forehead. “I don’t need to remove my clothes. I need to speak to Beecham.”

They exchange glances, whispering, but not uttering a word directly to me. Their eyes are steeled above their masks. One nods, and they let me go. It is only then that they place the robe down on the counter and file out, one by one.

“The doctor will see you shortly,” is all that is uttered to me by the last, before the door slams shut.

A wave of panic crests over me; I immediately go to follow them, but the door is locked. The knob doesn’t even wiggle, there’s no movement when I try with all my might, as if it’s jammed or blocked, or deadbolted from the outside.

I drop to my knees and peer through the slim space underneath.

Heels . Two of them, right up against the door. Someone's leaning against it.

Why are they like this—why are those nurses so strong ? And not in the way that would make me suspect they’d done rigorous strength training, or were naturally burly, or simply accustomed to unruly patients… but, strong in the way where no force on earth budged them.

Breathing hard, I retreat. They can’t see me like this, I can’t let the doctors see me like this.

An animal trying to escape. They’ll keep me here, dismiss me as a madman.

If the boy in the wheelchair was any standard to go by, not even taking poor Alma into account, this place needs to be shut down and investigated immediately by someone with considerably greater authority than I.

My head has begun to throb again, my stomach painfully acidic.

Through the commotion, I haven't even noticed the two chairs behind me. One for the patient, large and with a long back, with an array of mechanical contraptions attached to the side—probably to recline it. The other, a simple chair for the doctor. Shelves and cabinets line the back, but unlike Amah’s shop, they’re barren, or at least the shelves are.

I might as well make use of my time to snoop.

I tread across the room and proceed to open them, left to right.

The first holds gauzes and what I presume to be sterilizing liquid.

The second is stacked with blocks of sharp-smelling carbolic soap next to a jarful of long, metal instruments submerged in alcohol.

It is what’s in the third cabinet that catches my eye.

A lone filing tin.

London , it’s labeled. He must move offices often. I wonder why .

I take it down onto the counter, open it, and begin fingering through the documents. The first thing I see are names classified by alphabet.

I sort through all of them, making quick work of his patients’ surnames. Despite Beecham’s Infirmary existing here for little under a month according to Annie, there are dozens of files. They must be saturated; it’s no wonder his patients are in such poor condition.

“Alma Wharncliffe,” I mouth, flicking through the files. I stop to further loosen the ribbon at my collar; God, I’m burning up.

Look at me, dripping in sweat, trapped like some rabid animal. Scrounging through medical files and swallowing bile on the cusp of autumn. I should be boarding a ship right now, planning to show Annie and Amah the countryside.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the bags. Which one did she mention does the cooling again? The powder, I hope.

I place the dark paste back into my pocket and tear open the remaining bag with my teeth. Holding my nose, I empty the pouch into my mouth and chew. Even through my held breath, I can taste it. Briney, and sharp. I throw up in my mouth and force myself to swallow it again.

Charles better never thumb his fucking nose at me again.

Shuddering, I return to the documents. Ashcombe. Bennett. Blackwood. Clarke. Davies. Deverill. Fletcher. Hollingsworth. Mason. Penhaligon. Turner.

“Wharn…”

My fingers freeze on a file that sticks to my thumb in the humidity. Val ?—

I yank it out.

Etienne Valmont. #003

There are notes written, much too neat and meticulous for a physician.

V-Series

Subject: Etienne Valmont

Notes: Failed integration.

Traits: Son of Sir Gaspard Austol Valmont, M.D.. High empathy, low submission. Failed transition. Subject escaped facility. Unknown fertility anomaly passed??? Termination recommended . Observation taken. Monitor bloodline, reacquire progeny if identified.

Risk: Medium.

I stare at the date at the bottom. November 1815, London .

There’s a scrawled set of initials in red ink over “Termination recommended.”—A.B.

My mouth is dry. I fold and place the sheet in an empty pocket and, hands shaking with desperation and rage, return to the tin. Just to be sure…

I tug out the next and last Valmont entry.

Jacques Valmont #383

Series: Unknown.

Subject: Jacques Valmont

Status: High priority anomaly

Notes: External authorities informed. Presence requested (Patient #379 deployed). Do not initiate forced retrieval. Observe for pre-trigger manifestations; civilian contact has been briefed for observational support. Subject must remain unaware of her involvement.

Additional Notes: Patient inbound. Scheduled for extraction. Prepare restraints.

The door clicks, and I shove my record into my pocket, shut the tin, and place it back into the cabinet before swinging it shut?—

Just as the door opens to reveal a middle-aged balding man in a white longcoat, flanked by the four nurses who brought me in.

I stare at him from the corner like a trapped mongrel.

“Good morning, Jacques,” he says, his accent indistinctly French, as if he’d been born there but spent most of his life among different tongues.

Red clouds my vision, and I don’t even give them a chance. I bolt for the door—for him—but before I can wrap my hands around his windpipe, two of the nurses have me under the arms.

They lift me backward—off the floor when I start to fight—and into the patients’ chair, where leather and metal restraints await me.

It takes them all of five seconds to secure my wrists, thighs, and ankles, as if they’ve done this before, with subjects much bigger or stronger than I.

There’s some give at my torso and shoulders, so I twist, and I beg, and threaten, and snap my teeth at them.

I’m beyond tears. I want to tear his jugular out, slowly. Sinew by sinew.

The doctor only seems more pleased the more violent I grow.