Page 19

Enola guides the horses pulling the motor vehicle to the side of the road, and I follow her lead by nervously managing the driver’s wheel. She slows, and I push on the foot pedal so I don’t run her over. The vehicle jerks to a stop. Sun above—it worked!

In front of us is a massive mansion of a house, which is beautiful but still only a house. I stick my head out the missing side window. “I thought we were going to the hospital.”

Enola dismounts her horse with a grunt. “This is it.”

She glances away. “The original hospital . . . burned down. We use this house now, and when needed, the one next door.”

“Oh.”

I deflate a little. Seeing a real hospital would have been a dream come true.

We’re barely through the doors when we’re hit by the sound of loud moaning from upstairs. My skin tingles with excitement. Never knowing what you’re going to face makes healing such a rush.

A woman’s cry splits the air, and my gaze shoots to Enola.

She chuckles. “That’s probably Sabrina Peterdorn.”

I raise a brow. “Any idea what’s happening to—

My words are cut off by a man, yelling in pain. It’s the type of sound that comes from setting a bone or pulling an arrow. Or maybe he’s being stitched back together somewhere deep and internal without proper pain management. My pulse quickens. Henshaw did say he was a surgeon.

“Oh, and that’s probably Allen Peterdorn.”

Enola stops at a bathroom down the hall to wash her hands.

“Her husband?”

Enola nods with a spirited grin.

I take my turn washing my hands and follow her upstairs. There’s a sterility to the house. It lacks the usual things you’d normally find, like wall hangings, furniture, and window coverings. The air carries a scent of cleaner: vinegar and something else that tickles my nose. I’ve never smelled it before.

The layout of the house is similar to Tristan’s in that the bulk of the bedrooms are upstairs, but it’s easily three, maybe four times the size. Two staircases arc in opposite directions from the entryway and come together on the second floor. They lead to an open area lined with shelves of supplies like towels, buckets, jugs, and cups. Doors line the hallways in both directions, and I catch a glimpse of Caro with her short brown hair and unmistakable glower as she leaves a room.

Another moan comes from Allen, but now the sound is close. Just feet away.

Caro’s irritated gaze snags on me before turning to Enola. “It’s too busy of a day to be visiting.”

Enola’s arm wraps around my waist. “We’re not visiting. Dr. Henshaw is expecting us. Isadora will be observing him today.”

“Well, he’s not here.”

Caro’s face finally loses its frown; she’s all too pleased to deliver that news. “The Jenkinses’ littlest fell out of a tree. He may not be back.”

Disappointment crashes through me.

“Of course he’ll be back.”

Enola gestures toward Allen’s room. “He has to return for the Peterdorns. We’ll stay out of your way. Maybe we can make some beds while we wait.”

My gaze returns to the Peterdorns’ door, which is open a crack. What exactly is going on in there?

As Caro walks away, I move closer and peek inside. The room is bare except for a large bed. Two people lie on it together, wrapped in each other’s arms. Mr. and Mrs. Peterdorn, I gather. They spot me right away.

“Oh. Um. Just checking that everything is all right in here,”

I mutter, backing up a step.

Mrs. Peterdorn rolls away from her husband, revealing her very pregnant belly. Spirals of brown hair fall from her ponytail.

I almost laugh with relief. Is that what it is? She’s giving birth.

Her face contorts. “Another one’s coming.”

Curling back into her husband, she grips his neck. Then they simultaneously wince in pain as the contraction comes.

Wait. Is he? Are they?

No way.

He’s obviously only taking on some of her pain, not her physical condition. Will he continue until the baby crowns? Is it possible to give him pain medicine so he could take on more? Will he need medical attention too?

I can’t imagine any man from the clans being willing to suffer like this.

I half skip over to Enola, who stands next to the shelves, pulling down fresh linen into her arms. “They’re pain sharing,”

I yell-whisper, my eyes wide in disbelief.

Enola smiles. “Well, of course they are.”

Of course they are.

“It’s a beautiful thing,”

Enola muses. “And it’s only fair, after all. They used the connection to make this baby; why shouldn’t they use the connection to share the pain of birthing him?”

“You can use the connection to . . .”

I blink, lost in thought. Then furious heat climbs up my face. There’s so much about the connection I don’t know.

Enola’s watching me, but I can’t meet her eyes.

“The connection is first and foremost to prosper you,”

she says. “It’s a form of protection. That’s why wounds and pain can be shared. Then for unity, memories and pleasure are shown. Experienced. Everything must be consensual, of course, but it’s built on the foundation that two strands woven together will always be stronger than one.”

“I’m sorry, pleasure is what?”

Enola’s head tilts. “I think the best explanation is to just try it, my dear.”

Mercifully, she’s lowered her voice to a whisper. “Even something as simple as a kiss can be—”

“Sandy, how are the Peterdorns doing?”

I spin around and find Henshaw at the top of the stairs. His question is directed to a gray-haired woman just leaving their room.

He’s here! Good. This is good.

But like a rock that won’t stop skipping over the water after being thrown at high speed, I can’t stop my mind from returning to what I just learned about the connection. Is pleasure not always an experience? How is this different?

And what would it be like to experience any of that with Tristan?

Stop thinking about it.

Sandy slips a paper into her blue apron. “Six centimeters and progressing nicely.”

Henshaw nods. “Okay, we have some time.”

His reluctant gaze slides to mine. “Right. Well, keep up,”

he says, before speeding down the hall.

My legs protest as I force them faster than I’ve walked in what feels like ages, but I manage to maintain his pace, feeling oddly buoyant. With a wave, Enola stays behind.

“So, did you specialize in anything?”

I ask. When he doesn’t answer I add, “As a surgeon.”

Henshaw gives me a wary look.

Am I not allowed to talk?

“I’m a circulatory surgeon, not that it matters. Here, I’m merely a doctor. With our limited supplies, I do what I can with what I have.”

“So you’re unable to do surgery . . . because of the lack of supplies.”

It’s disheartening to hear that they don’t have solutions to the same problems we face. Try as we might, medicinal herbs can’t fully replace old-world antibacteriums and anesthesia. The only surgical exception we’ve learned we can make is the removal of infected limbs and fingers. Which, even with the use of paralyzing herbs and poppy extract for pain, can be horrific for the patient. And then comes the fight against sepsis.

“That’s not what I said.”

He sighs. “We’ve sourced old but still useful antibacteriums, and I’ve been able to replicate sulfuric ether by distilling sulfuric acid with wine. It was what they used hundreds of years ago for anesthesia. When inhaled, even through something as rudimentary as a wet towel, it’s satisfactory to complete the job.”

“Sulfuric ether,”

I repeat under my breath. And—stars—they have a source for proper antibacteriums.

We enter a room at the end of the hall.

The young man in the bed is reading a book while his left arm rests on a pillow, palm up. There’s a simple white bandage wrapped around the wrist.

“Feeling okay, Grenner?”

Henshaw lifts the man’s arm without asking for permission and unties the white cloth.

Grenner’s eyes flick uncertainly to me. “As good as can be, I guess. Hand hasn’t fallen off.”

My brows shoot up.

The last of the white strip pulls away from his skin, revealing a stitched line over half of the width of his wrist. “What happened?”

I ask, moving closer. His stitches are impeccable, and the dark, wiry thread is definitely not boiled horsehair.

“Grenner had an accident with an ax yesterday,”

Henshaw says.

I puzzle over how an injury like this happened—especially by his own hand, but I’ve been healing long enough to know that anything is possible.

“You’re lucky I’m good at my job. Everything seems to be holding. I’ll check it again in the morning, and if it’s still good and you don’t have a fever, you can go home.”

My mind is in a fog of questions as we turn to leave the room. “How did that not turn into an amputation?”

I whisper just loud enough for Henshaw to hear. “The bleeding alone—”

“Clamps. I always have them with me.”

He taps his breast pocket.

My mouth pops open. “You clamped, then repaired his radial artery? How?”

I nod as the answer comes to me. “Right, this is your specialty. And what about his nerves? The radial must have been severed. Possibly even the median.”

Henshaw eyes me curiously. “I’m not a miracle worker. But I saved his hand.”

He did and it’s amazing. “And what about the bo—”

Caro sticks her head in the door as we reach it. “The men are back.”

Henshaw’s shoulders stiffen. An alertness enters his eyes. “Any injuries?”

My spine straightens.

“Some. One’s been shot, but it doesn’t seem critical from what I was told. The rest need minor wound care, maybe some stitches.”

The floor shifts under my feet. If someone’s been shot, that means there’s been fighting. I look at the people in the room. No one seems surprised. This was planned. “What’s going on?”

Silence.

“Was there an attack?”

I ask louder. “Did it involve Tristan?”

Caro gives a small nod.

“Is he the one who got . . .”

My voice wobbles. I can’t even say it.

“No,”

Caro says. “Calm down.”

I can’t. “Where are they back from?”

What have they done?

She turns to Henshaw as if seeking his permission to answer. They share a look. “Hanook.”

I take an unsteady step back. This can’t be real. Tristan said he wouldn’t.

But he did.

I run out the door and Caro’s shoulder clips mine as I pass her. I throw her a startled look, amazed at her hatred for me. How stupid of me to think I could lower my guard around her. Around any of them.

“Isadora!”

Enola calls from down the hall as I stagger my way to the stairs. There’s unmistakable concern in her voice.

I whip around to face her. “Tristan and some of the men went to Hanook. They just returned. Some of them are injured. Why is that, Enola? Why were they near the clans at all?”

As her face falls, the light in her eyes dims.

I flinch. She knew.

Backing up, I shake my head until my eyes water and I can’t stand to look at her any longer.

All this time Tristan was the fox. They all were.

I turn to run.

“Don’t do anything rash,”

she yells at my back as I race down the stairs.

A scream builds in my throat. What? Like stab Tristan between the ribs?

I can’t promise that.

We’re no longer playing by the rules.