“Oh,” I reply, some of the tension in my chest easing. “Thank the Saints,” I add before I remember there are no Saints at all. As I grab my cane, he steps away, giving me space to leave my room.
“Thank the Saints indeed,” he murmurs before turning on his heel and pacing back toward the end of the corridor.
I don’t waste time watching him go; instead, I pull my door closed and lock it before making my way through Foundling Hall and to the infirmary, located at the other end of the Spine. The long corridor is buzzing with uneasy energy—the kitchen staff is transporting large vats of steaming water while a priest performsa rushed Blessing over a group of legionnaires gathered off to the side.
I keep my head down until I get to the infirmary, though I’m well aware my cane always gives me away. Pain bites into my hip and my knee; there was no time for my morning stretches. When I finally reach Physica Hall, Headmistress Magdalena stands in the center of the wide space, directing incoming stretchers to empty beds.
I pause at the large stone basin built into the wall, opening the valve for fresh water to scrub my hands. It looks like the novices haven’t been roused from their beds, which is good—it means we’re not desperate for extra hands. I only see the physicians, more healers like myself, and a few familiar older nuns. My heart pulls a little, as it always does, at the sight of the physician’s robes. How I would have loved to attend the scholae, to have drowned myself in knowledge of all the ways we can heal and mend. But the First Son, in all His divine wisdom, was quite clear that women are to serve a different purpose in the Host.
I sigh and glance up at the enormous candelabras hanging from the ceiling. They are lit with Blessings, offering brighter illumination than candles by which to work. The hall is, like much of the Cloisters, cavern-shaped with a barreled ceiling. Unlike the rest of the Church’s buildings, Physica Hall offers no gleam and glimmer, no loops of dripping pearls or gilt-drenched finery or shimmery velvet. The stone walls are bare, the marble floors swept clean, the shelving tidy with meticulously organized supplies.
I take a deep breath and approach Headmistress Magdalena, the sharp sting of thyme and chamomile oil tickling my nose, followed by the iron scent of blood.
The cots are less than half-full, and the plain stone slabs at the far end are not heaped with bodies, the way I’ve seen too many times before. It’s not quite ease that slips under my skinas I make my way through the aisles of beds, but a stitch in my chest releases itself. If the Lupa Nox had participated in this attack, the hall would be filled with the sounds of screams, my hands busy with rent limbs and slashed arteries.
“Pray tell, why do you seek our aid after an attack on our city?” comes a voice from my left. I startle, turning my head to find a young physician. His features are unfamiliar, his pale vestments unstained. I open my mouth, but no words come out, so he fills the silence. “Back to your bed, invalid. We can deal with your silly complaints in the morning.”
Heat races across my face. “Sir,” I begin, lowering my eyes, “I am not here for treatment. I’m a healer. My presence was requested by the headmistress moments ago.”
With my peripheral vision, I see surprise bloom in his features, and then a mocking frown. “Didn’t know we seek the employ of cripples here in Physica Hall.”
My cheeks burn and, though it mortifies me, tears prick my eyes. All that sorrow I felt earlier returns, simmering in my chest. I try to turn and make my way toward Headmistress Magdalena, but the physician blocks my path—an easy thing to maneuver quicker than someone like me, and cruel, too.
“Do understand,” he says, too close to me now, his breath ruffling my hair, “I don’t begrudge your presence. You’re a feast for sore eyes. Besides the cane, of course. Though you’d hardly need it where I’d want you, anyways.”
The blood pounds in my ears, and the rest of the sound in the hall goes tinny, as if it is just me and this strange physician, everyone else leagues and leagues away. My heart plunges into a breakneck speed, thumping against my chest like a caged animal. I am back at the Twelve Days’ Feast in that abandoned corridor with Sergio, his hands reaching for me, the frail nature of my own sinful body keeping me from running, running,running. Heat barrels up my throat, and my hands clench into fists.
“Sister Ophelia!” Headmistress Magdalena’s firm, strong voice breaks through my cloud of fear.
My head snaps up, and over the physician’s shoulder, I see her stout, sturdy frame, perfectly pressed apron, and head of tightly curled black hair, halo-like in the light of the Blessed chandeliers.
“Yes, Headmistress,” I call, taking the opportunity to duck around the physician while he’s distracted.
“Thank the Saints you’re here,” she says, her gaze darting to the young physician, her mouth downturned for a heartbeat. Lines crease the dark skin of her forehead. “I have a broken leg to reset. Goddamn Hexen. Harder to do on my own these days. Suppose I’m getting old. Come with me.”
I have never been so happy to obey, gladly following Magdalena at least thirty paces away to examine a legionnaire’s leg. It’s broken quite badly, apparently due to the Sepulchyre’s attack drawing the attention of the Hexen. Strangely enough, it’s when I’m facing down a terrible injury and thinking of the poisoned, twisted creatures in the Sundered Lands which lie just beyond our rampart walls that my heart finally returns to its usual beat.
“Are you quite all right, Ophelia?” Magdalena asks, peering at me with those sharp brown eyes over the soldier’s bed. He’s mostly asleep, thanks to the poppy milk, his head lolling to one side, gaze unfocused.
“Fine,” I say, though I can hear the high-pitched strain in my voice.
Magdalena tuts, shaking her head, and then tells me where to hold the man’s leg. I look down at his face, my heart hurting for him.
His leg had been set poorly last winter by a physician—who aren’t meant to do such grunt work; their great minds are of better use elsewhere—which is why it fractured today during the attack. Magdalena explains we’ll need to re-break the fibula to set the fracture and prevent further injury. She calls over a pontifex who has been assisting with final rites, and between the three of us—me on a tall stool at the end of the bed, Magdalena and the pontifex standing—we manage the task. The snap of bone, even all these anni later, still makes me wince.
I wipe away the sheen breaking out across the legionnaire’s face with a damp cloth, and then there are wounds and stitches and a badly punctured lung that only a physician with Saints-granted Mysterium has any hope of doing a thing about. Not only do the Sepulchyre endlessly attack us, but the Hexen are their fault, too—all the horrible Curses leaked into the land when they hung the First Son from the cross and destroyed His wings.
I sigh and make my way to one of the stone basins, pulling off my linen gloves and then scrubbing them down with a bar of tallow soap. I’m doing the same to my hands when Magdalena appears at my side.
“The new physician,” she says, turning on another spigot. “What did he say?”
Sorrow unfolds in me like a bonfire catching. “Nothing new,” I murmur, shame wrapping burning fingers around my throat.
“His Mysterium barely qualifies him to even be a physician,” Magdalena scoffs, soaping up her forearms. “Wouldn’t be here at all if not for his father.”
I finish rinsing and shift my weight, my hip meeting the cool stone of the basin. Her words embolden me as I reach for a clean square of muslin from the pile beside the sink. “He made a comment about my leg and then said I wouldn’t need my cane, anyway, where he wanted me.” My veins pound as I await Magdalena’s response, too much hinged on her support.
“Beyond the pale,” she mutters, turning off the spigot and shaking water from her hands and arms. Then she turns to me, leaning against the basin. “But Ophelia,dobear in mind you are out among men in your dressing gown, your hair in the kind of braid only your husband should see you wear. I understand you came as quickly as you could, and I don’t fault you for putting our soldiers first. I’m just saying that, to a young man, you might look . . . entirely too uninhibited, you see? And it is our job as women to ensure we do not tempt.”
