Page 9 of Dark Embrace
Sarah hovered in the background, listening to the discussion as she began to ladle portions from a fresh kettle of porridge that had been brought from the kitchen by the same two lads who had lugged thefirst.
The gentlemen pressed together in a throng. Mr. Franks was the peacock of the group, his black frock coat the single somber element of his attire. He wore buff trousers and a red waistcoat over his protuberant belly, and a bright blue stock high abouthisneck.
His appearance contrasted starkly with Mr. Simon, a tall and gangly man, dressed all in black save for his white shirt, his bony wrists sticking out beyond his cuffs, his hands milk-white with long, slenderfingers.
To his left was a young apothecary apprentice, his dark green frock coat and navy trousers covered by a white bib apron, the only one of the group who bothered in any way to protect his attire from the gore of the ward, or perhaps he sought to protect the patients from the unhealthy humors that might cling to hisclothing.
Sarah’s father had ever insisted that humors brought in from the street might create an unhealthy miasma for the patient. In her months working at King’s College, she had seen much to support histheories.
She realized with a start that the apprentice was staring at her. He didn’t look away when he saw that she had caught him. Instead, he lifted his brows and continued to stare. Unsettled, she turned her attention back to her task and when she glanced at him once more, he hadlookedaway.
Sarah set down her ladle and angled closer to the bed until she could peer around the press of bodies to better see the patient for herself. His skin was as pasty as freshly boiled linens, slick with sweat. His eyes were glassy, his breathing labored. She had no doubt that was she to have the opportunity to feel for his pulse, it would be rapidandwild.
There was a terrible odor coming from the stump. She could smell it even at this distance. Sarah disagreed with Mr. Franks on this. The smell was not sickly sweet, but the stink of rotting flesh. Thick, rancid pus oozed from the stump, and the free ends of the ligatures draped across the sheet, leaving trails of yellow-greensuppuration.
“The hip it must be,” said Mr.Franks.
“I beg to differ, sir. I must insist on mid-thigh,” came Mr. Simon’s sharp reply. “You well know that the higher the amputation the greater the risk ofdeath.”
“His risk is great enough from the spread of the poison. Do you not see it, man, crawling up his thigh like a spider?” Mr. Franks turned and looked about at his supporters, who murmuredagreement.
He was wrong. The poison was not crawling up his thigh. It was well past that point, streaks of red extending all the way up, pasthiship.
The patient, Mr. Scully, roused himself enough to look slowly back and forth between the doctors, his entire body trembling, his lips working but making no sound. Sarah wondered if he understood what they were saying, or if he was caught in a delirium brought on by the poison that was flowing throughhisbody.
Off to one side, the attendants moved about, preparing the large wooden table for the operations to come, scattering fresh sawdust on the floor beneath to catch the blood that would drip down. There was only a curtain separating the table from the remainder oftheward.
On a smaller wooden bench were laid out the necessary implements. Sharp knives, some curved, some straight, designed to sweep clear through skin and muscle, down to the bone. An ebony handled saw. Petit’s screw tourniquets. Curved needles. Tenaculum to grab the artery and allow for the silk ligature to tie it off. Abasin.
How many times had she stood by her father’s side and handed him each item as he needed it, no words exchanged, no requestnecessary?
From him, she had learned how to tighten the tourniquet, tie a ligature, even the appropriate way to cut flaps of skin and allow for healing by firstintention.
Of course, she had never done a surgery on her own, but she had worked at her father’s side for years, never thinking about whether she liked the role, whether she wanted to be there. She had been there because he needed her hands, because the patients needed the care, because she could not deny succor to any who suffered. It was not in her nature. And because she was good at it, her instincts sure and true. Her father had remarked on that often, even going so far as to occasionally follow a path she suggested instead of the one he hadplanned.
Then, abruptly, her father was gone. Dead. He had left her alone and destitute, forced to take a position at King’s College as a day nurse, because there was no other option open to her. Well…not unless she wanted to stand on a corner dressed in bright colors with her bodice cut low, leaning against a post by the gin houses of SevenDials.
Sarah was grateful that the physicians of King’s College remembered her father with fond respect, and so recommended her to the matron for a position in thewards.
She had thought a great deal about her preferences since then, and she had realized that though her emotions rebelled against the suffering of the sick and injured, and the environment itself made her at times feel sad and drained and worn, she yearned to help these people, to offer comfort and solace and what little healing she could. What had begun as a path following in her father’s footsteps simply because he expected it had become her own inclination somewhere in time. Had she been her father’s son rather than his daughter, she would be one of the surgeons onthisward.
For an instant, she wondered what she might say if she were one of the surgeons standing by the bed. Not the high amputation; it was too dangerous. But given the red streaks that marked the path of the poison, she feared that the lower amputation would do no good at all. Neither path appeared to offer any better hope than doing nothingatall.
As the men continued their argument, Sarah sensed the patient’s growing distress. With a cry, he reared up and peered around the crowd to lock his gaze on the operatingtable.
Thrashing, he turned toward Sarah, and she saw that his eyes were fever bright. He began to sob, deep, guttural sounds that she felt in the marrow of her bones. Then his gaze locked on her, his attentioncomplete.
“Please,” he said. “Do not let them do this.Donot.”
She stood, frozen. All eyes turned in her direction, and she was caught like a rabbit in an open field. Her heart twisted in a tight, black knot. She had drawn attention to herself. There was real danger in that. What had possessed her to step up and insinuate herself at the edges of the group? It was far better to avoid notice, to go about her duties like a wraith. She could not afford their notice, could not afford to have one of them decide she was unwelcome here at King’sCollege.
“Please,” Mr. Scully begged. “You cannot understand what it was like to be cut like that, to feel as if time stopped in the instant of that agony, trapping me there. Never have I known such darkness, such despair. Never have I so truly believed that my maker had deserted me, left me in a cauldron of pain and suffering, left me therealone.”
All around them, other patients shifted restlessly, disturbed by Mr. Scully’s cries. Some called out, and some stayed stoicallysilent.
“Enough.” A single word, spoken in a low, even tone. And itwasenough, for the sounds settled and somehow, the tension in the wardeased.
Killian Thayne stepped through the door of the ward and made his way to the far side of Mr. Scully’s bed. As was his habit, he was garbed all in black, the somber tone a contrast to the pale gold ofhishair.