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A VISIT FROM DOCTOR DEATH

L éon didn’t feel he was exaggerating when he told Guillotin that Henry’s arm was rotten and black, and that he was sure it would need to come off.

And if Guillotin thought the man who’d charmed everyone so thoroughly the night before couldn’t have taken such a sharp turn in such a brief time, he never let on to Léon.

He’d seen at once that their friendship was close, but Léon’s state of aggrievement drove the point home.

Catherine greeted them at the door, and was instantly thrown by the appearance of the renowned physician.

Guillotin had been schooled, as most doctors of the time were, in not unduly worrying the ladies of any house, and as he was not particularly worried himself, it wasn’t difficult for him to appear unconcerned.

Especially with Léon leading, rambling opaquely about how Guillotin had simply come to talk about execution methods for Henry’s article.

But Catherine eyed the medical bag, and Léon was aware of a ceramic statue that rumbled dangerously on a side table.

He opted to take Guillotin upstairs as quickly as possible, sparing a smile for Souveraine when her hand came down on the statue to steady it.

émile was in the bedroom with Henry when Léon arrived.

When he’d come in was a mystery.

He was curled up next to Henry with a book, and Henry was unconscious on the pillow, the papers, the inkstand and the quill at his fingertips, as though he’d dropped off mid-sentence.

But he had not. As Léon approached, he saw the signature of Henri De Villiers large and beautiful across the bottom of the page, accompanied by a what looked like a note of direction.

“What’s this?” he asked émile.

“He wrote something for a newspaper. He wants you to take it there.” émile tapped the note, then leaned back against Henry and pressed his little hand to his temple.

“I don’t think he’s well.”

“He’ll be okay,” said Léon, lying every bit as earnestly as Henry had lied to him.

“We rode too far the last few days. He’s tired. But…” Guillotin had already removed his coat and sent a warning look to Léon.

“Citizen Guillotin has come to check on him, just to make sure. But he needs some space. Can you run down to Souveraine?—”

With small and set lips, “I don’t want to go.”

“Please, émile.” Léon felt himself on the verge of tears.

He didn’t like the way Henry’s head rested.

It didn’t look comfortable, like he’d fallen that way.

His pallor was a washed-out green-grey.

“Please go down to her.”

He held out his hand, and the boy crawled to the edge of the bed.

Léon dropped to his knees to look into his eyes, and émile asked, “Are you still mad with him?”

Léon laughed.

Sadly. He was surprised he could laugh at all.

“No. I’m not mad with him anymore.” émile was smart.

He could see just as well as Léon could that things weren’t right.

So Léon said, “Can you do something for me? I need to ask you to be very grown up and help me.” émile gave a nod.

“Catherine’s a little bit worried about him. She doesn’t need to be, but you know she’s his sister. And she loves him, like I love you. So could you…” It felt so wrong to ask him to lie.

He was just a boy. And the last thing Léon ever wanted was to put responsibility onto those small shoulders.

“So, could you ask her to help you take Destroyer out to the yard? I think he needs more exercise. And Henry’s resting today. Because he had a late night.”

émile saw right through him, and Léon knew he did.

But émile left, not to find Destroyer or Catherine, but to seek out the soft comfort of Souveraine.

Guillotine drew a chair up beside the bed.

Henry had on a loose nightshirt, which Guillotin pulled down over his shoulder, exposing the top of Henry’s biceps.

His fingers touched down on the inky skin discolouration.

“How long has it been?”

“He got shot about a week ago.” Léon rushed to cover the admission.

“His-his carriage was attacked by a bandit?—”

“I don’t care about the circumstances,” Guillotin responded dryly.

“Only a week?”

“Yes, and then he…” After a tense moment, Léon sat down on the bed.

“He was imprisoned. He has since been declared innocent and set free, but the place they held him, it was filthy, and I fear he got the infection there. And he’s been free for four days now, and when last I saw his arm unbandaged, three days ago, it looked bad. But it wasn’t black like that.”

Guillotin had begun to undo the bandage, which pulled where dried blood held it to the skin.

“No treatment?”

“Vinegar, he told me. Salt.”

The pain of the movement roused a groan from Henry.

His head rolled across the pillow, and “Shhh,” Léon whispered, moving close to place a hand on his burning cheek.

“Ange,” Henry whispered.

“I need you.”

He instantly slipped back into his uneasy slumber, while a bolt of alarm snapped Léon’s head across to Guillotin, who muttered, “I really don’t care.” Around and around he unwound the bandage, then entirely failed in his prior show of good bedside manner.

“Holy shit.”

Léon leaned forward, but Guillotin’s hand came up to his face.

“Don’t look. You won’t sleep tonight.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen worse,” Léon replied in a wavering voice.

“I’m an executioner.”

“I very much doubt you have.” Guillotin reached for the lamp by Henry’s bed.

“Henri?” He lifted one eyelid, and Léon watched as his love lay perfectly unresponsive to the light.

“Henri!” Guillotin repeated a little more loudly.

“He’s not responding,” he mumbled under his breath, as though he needed to.

He put the lamp down, pressed his hand to Henry’s forehead, then declared, “Not good.”

Wrenching Henry’s shirt up, he exposed pale skin, blotchy and mottled, Henry’s chest moving fast with rapid breaths.

His hand on his heart, Guillotin felt the beats.

“Not good,” he repeated.

“Can you wake him?”

Léon, beside himself, took Henry’s hand.

“Henri? Henri, can you hear me?”

A fast and repeated wheezing came from Henry’s throat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry. She’s going to burn. Ange…”

Léon clutched compulsively at his fingers.

“No, darling. No. She’s safe. You’re safe.”

“I can’t get the blood off. I can’t. I’m sorry. Ange.” His head twitched away, and Léon looked to Guillotin for instruction.

Whatever nightmare Henry was caught in, was there any need to drag it out like this?

Guillotin gave a sharp nod, then moved to his medical bag.

“I’m going to put an ointment on the wound, and we’re going to try to bring his fever down. But I won’t lie to you.” He glanced at Henry’s blueish lips.

“If he doesn’t improve dramatically within the next twenty-four hours, you’ll be saying goodbye.”

“But he was fine,” Léon cried, six tonnes of steel on his chest. “He was perfectly fine last night.”

“He’s not fine now,” he said simply.

“This arm has not been fine for a while.”

“But… It’s the arm. It’s just— You can take it if you have to. I will care for him—I will pay for it.”

Pausing his busy movements, taken with sympathy, Guillotin said softly, “It’s in his blood now. He’s strong, and he’s young, and we’ll do everything we can for him. But it doesn’t look good.” He came over to Léon and squeezed his arm.

“If there’s a will, or a next of kin, it’s time to get those things in order. I don’t recommend any of the city cemeteries. They’re overflowing, foul, disease-ridden places. With his money, you might get a nice plot in?—”

“We have no money,” Léon muttered.

“Oh. Well.” Guillotin stood tall with a slight shrug.

“The city ones aren’t so very bad. I’m sure there’s… space… somewhere…” He reached for a little glass jar he’d just taken out, placing it back in his bag.

Léon, in a panic, clamped down on his wrist. “No.” He glanced at the medical bag.

“No, I mean, we do have money. I just have to organise some bonds to be sold. That will take me, maybe, a few hours. We-we have plenty of money. More than enough. And I will give you some. I will pay you today. To-tonight. For the best treatment you have. The very best of everything. But please start now.”

A short sigh escaped Guillotin’s nostrils.

He was a good man at heart, and not immune to the scene before him, even if he doubted Léon’s claims of wealth.

“Very well. I’ll start treatment.”

The jar came back out, and Léon watched the preparations, bereft.

It was one thing to sit by his dying partner’s bedside, to hold his hand and watch him fade away.

It was quite another to leave him there, to go out into the strange streets of Paris, and to sink himself into the very horrors he thought he’d finally left behind.

Because there was only one way Léon knew he was guaranteed to get that money.

And lucky for him, there was no other time in all of French history that his specific skill set would be in such high demand.

Leaving Guillotin with Henry, Léon went searching for Souveraine.

He was surprised to find her in the library with émile and Catherine.

Catherine had, it seemed, decided to give the boy some schooling while he was isolated there in the house.

émile was deeply engaged, scrawling away, and even Souveraine held a quill.

She glanced up at Léon, but didn’t halt her movement over the paper, turning her concentration back as quickly as it had left, finishing copying the shape Catherine had laid before her.

A letter.

“Souveraine, can I talk to you?” Léon called.

Her tone was clipped.

“I’m busy.”

Catherine smiled across at her.

“It’s okay. We have plenty of time to continue later.”

These words clearly held more sway with Souveraine than Léon’s had.

She huffed as she dropped her quill back into the ink pot, but she came into the living room with him all the same.

He didn’t help her mood by starting with, “I have an enormous favour to ask you.”

Slamming two hands into his shoulders, she shoved him a foot backwards.

“Not again!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” He followed her to one of the boarded-up windows that she scowled through the cracks of.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t very important.”

“Well, it must be important for you to come and talk to me.” She turned to him, eyes flashing.

“Why have you been avoiding me like this? And émile’s miserable. He says you won’t let him in the room with Henri, and I can’t see why?—”

“Souveraine.” He took her hand and whispered, “Henri’s sick. He’s really sick. I’m not sure he’s going to be okay.”

Her worried eyes ran up the stairs, then back to Léon’s miserable face.

As ever, she pulled him a little closer, a hand on his cheek.

“What’s happened?”

“Guillotin says it’s blood poisoning.”

She gave a soft breath, ending on a melancholy note.

She knew as well as Léon did, that sounded exactly like a death sentence.

But her sadness twisted into shock when Léon then asked his favour.

“I need you to keep Catherine away from him. She can’t find out.”

On a furious whisper, “Why on earth would I do that?”

Léon couldn’t possibly tell her the truth, that Catherine was a magical witch with out-of-control powers, so he tried his usual strategy of avoidance.

“I have to go out. To get some money. To pay for Henri’s medicine. I can’t be here, and I am totally reliant on you to help with this.”

Her brow lowered over sharp eyes.

“By lying to her about her brother’s illness?”

“And for checking on him for me,” he quickly listed.

“If he needs anything?—”

“You know, I can’t tell sometimes if you’re completely mad or just completely selfish.”

“I’m neither,” he protested, not at all sure about the former, wavering on the latter.

“You can’t simply keep women in a state of perpetual infantilisation as it suits your needs.”

Befuddled, he tried to repeat, “Infan?—”

“How is she supposed to grow up and come into her own if he continually treats her like a child? And I’ll tell you this, Léon. We were fine here before you two arrived. Absolutely fine with our flour and our cheese and our wine. And then you two come back, and we’re going to parties, and she’s talking to Mary , and-and they are having dinner! And I like Mary, well enough, not as much as Olympe, mind you, and now… And now you’re asking me to lie to her, and how is that going to look?”

Barely able to put her string of words into any usable order given his emotional overwhelm, he said only, “It’s for her own good.”

“How is that for her own good?” Souveraine threw back.

“What if he dies tomorrow, and she never got a chance to say goodbye?”

“Souveraine,” he begged, “I’m just trying to keep her calm. Look, I can’t talk to you about this right now. There’s someone I need to see, and I must make all haste. Please, will you do this for me? Please? I’m only asking that you check on him on occasion, bring him food and water, and tell Catherine he’s working on his article.” Léon stopped dead.

“His article!” He bolted back up the stairs.

“We are not done!” Souveraine called after him.

“We are!” He paused long enough to call over the bannister breathlessly, “Until tonight. Please. Please. Please, please, please, please, Souveraine.”

She threw back her head, stomped a foot, then stormed off, an act he took for acquiescence.

He ran up the stairs and snatched the article from Henry’s bedside table, kissed his cheek despite Guillotin’s presence, then, with one final stroke of his finger across Henry’s precious face, ran from the house.