Heels. Two of them, right up against the door. Someone's leaning against it.
Why are they like this—why are those nurses sostrong? And not in the way that would make me suspect they’d done rigorous strength training, or were naturally burly, or simply accustomed to unruly patients… but, strong in the way where no force on earth budged them.
Breathing hard, I retreat. They can’t see me like this, I can’t let the doctors see me like this. An animal trying to escape. They’ll keep me here, dismiss meas a madman. If the boy in the wheelchair was any standard to go by, not even taking poor Alma into account, this place needs to be shut down and investigated immediately by someone with considerably greater authority than I.
My head has begun to throb again, my stomach painfully acidic.
Through the commotion, I haven't even noticed the two chairs behind me. One for the patient, large and with a long back, with an array of mechanical contraptions attached to the side—probably to recline it. The other, a simple chair for the doctor. Shelves and cabinets line the back, but unlike Amah’s shop, they’re barren, or at least the shelves are.
I might as well make use of my time to snoop. I tread across the room and proceed to open them, left to right. The first holds gauzes and what I presume to be sterilizing liquid. The second is stacked with blocks of sharp-smelling carbolic soap next to a jarful of long, metal instruments submerged in alcohol. It is what’s in the third cabinet that catches my eye.
A lone filing tin.
London, it’s labeled. He must move offices often.I wonder why.
I take it down onto the counter, open it, and begin fingering through the documents. The first thing I see are names classified by alphabet.
I sort through all of them, making quick work of his patients’ surnames. Despite Beecham’s Infirmary existing here for little under a month according to Annie, there are dozens of files. They must be saturated; it’s no wonder his patients are in such poor condition.
“Alma Wharncliffe,” I mouth, flicking through the files. I stop to further loosen the ribbon at my collar; God, I’m burning up.
Look at me, dripping in sweat, trapped like some rabid animal. Scrounging through medical files and swallowingbile on the cusp of autumn. I should be boarding a ship right now, planning to show Annie and Amah the countryside.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the bags.Which one did she mention does the cooling again?The powder, I hope.
I place the dark paste back into my pocket and tear open the remaining bag with my teeth. Holding my nose, I empty the pouch into my mouth and chew. Even through my held breath, I can taste it. Briney, and sharp. I throw up in my mouth and force myself to swallow it again.
Charles better never thumb his fucking nose at me again.
Shuddering, I return to the documents.Ashcombe. Bennett. Blackwood. Clarke. Davies. Deverill. Fletcher. Hollingsworth. Mason. Penhaligon. Turner.
“Wharn…”
My fingers freeze on a file that sticks to my thumb in the humidity.Val?—
I yank it out.
Etienne Valmont.#003
There are notes written, much too neat and meticulous for a physician.
V-Series
Subject: Etienne Valmont
Notes: Failed integration.
Traits: Son of Sir Gaspard Austol Valmont, M.D.. High empathy, low submission. Failed transition. Subject escaped facility. Unknown fertility anomaly passed???Termination recommended. Observation taken. Monitor bloodline, reacquire progeny if identified.
Risk: Medium.
I stareat the date at the bottom.November1815, London.
There’s a scrawled set of initials in red ink over “Termination recommended.”—A.B.
My mouth is dry. I fold and place the sheet in an empty pocket and, hands shaking with desperation and rage, return to the tin. Just to be sure…
I tug out the next and lastValmontentry.
