“The funeral home doesn’t seem to be working out,” Lafontaine commented.
“When I return to my studies, I’ll put in extra time for the hours I’ve lost.”
“Even a lifetime isn’t enough to force the heart where it does not belong.” Lafontaine guided him to one of the shelves, where he reached for a gold syringe. “Another path might be more appropriate.”
The instrument illuminated, and something in the shelf clicked as a mechanism whirred to life, revealing a hidden passageway.
“Don’t dawdle. Our patient awaits.”
Nik’s spine stiffened, but the promise of time alone with Lafontaine was enough to encourage him to follow. They entered a sterile white room with polished floors and a mirrored ceiling. Steel sinks lined the back wall, and rows of shelves above were filled with meticulously organized surgeons’ gear.
Nik mirrored Lafontaine, washing his hands to his elbows and tugging on an operating gown that tightened to his body like a second skin. Next, he snapped on a mask and gloves, which smelled of chemicals meant to purify the air.
Lafontaine guided him through a door to the smallest operating room Nik had ever seen. A singular table took up the center, the body on it illuminated beneath a brilliant light.
It was already open, red insides shifting with the patient’s breath.
Nik looked away before his stomach could riot.
On the opposite wall was a mirror. A one-way window?
Why? Why had this room been hidden in Lafontaine’s office? Was it a secret he’d finally earned?
Why now?
“Come, boy.”
Nik turned on leaden feet and forced himself to look upon the patient. A sheet concealed their face, while machines hummed, ready to keep them alive should the operation fail. Their rib cage had been pried apart to reveal their sluggishly beating heart. The entire process was mechanical. Not medicinal.
“Our patient here is suffering from a failure in a heart valve,” Lafontaine said, “which we will attempt to fix.”
This was a massive jump from cleaning corpses.
“Do you know the symptoms of heart failure?” Lafontaine asked.
“Shortness of breath.”
“And?”
“Dizziness.”
“And?”
“Chest pain.”
Lafontaine nodded. “Among other things. However, the only way to determine the true problem is to cut until we find the rot.”
He went to work, pulling a surgical tray close. Normally, a surgeon would rely upon help to provide the tools so they could focus, but Lafontaine did both. He selected a microscopically thin scalpel.
“Each of the Sociétés are called Arts. Do you know why?” he asked.
“Art means skill, which each discipline requires,” Nik intoned, one of many memorized lessons.
“More than that. They require imagination. Even something as gruesome as this.”
With a practiced motion, he cut the pericardium, two layers of tissue that he pulled away to reveal the working arteries, veins, and ventricles. The whole thing was paper thin, and as Nik watched Lafontaine work, he forgot about how violent he could really be. This was gentle, careful, and practiced.
“Centuries ago,” Lafontaine continued, “some brave scientist became the first person to peek inside our bodies, to learn how we worked in order to figure out how we could better help ourselves.”
