The Death of Jane Lawrence

Dr. Augustine Lawrence’s cuffs were stained with blood and his mackintosh had failed against the persistent drizzle. He looked damp, miserable, and scared.

Of her.

Jane Shoringfield couldn’t take her eyes off him, even though her attention was clearly overwhelming. This was the man she intended to marry, if he’d have her. If she could convince him.

He was frozen in the doorway to her guardian’s study, and she was similarly still just behind the desk. Even from here, she could see that she had several inches on him in height, that his dark hair was full, slightly waved, and going silver already at his left temple, and that his wide eyes were a murky green, and gentle, but almost sad in the wrong light.

She hadn’t expected him to be handsome.

Doctor!

Her guardian’s voice boomed down the hallway, and the man startled, turning to face it. Mr. Cunningham, he greeted in turn. "I’m sorry, I’m afraid I lost track of your maid,

and—"

No matter, no matter. How good of you to join us! I was afraid you might change your mind.

Jane couldn’t see Mr. Cunningham, but she could picture him perfectly: white hair carefully combed back, a fine but comfortable suit, bright brown eyes. Short and narrow, almost too narrow for his orator’s voice and charisma.

I’m afraid I may not be the best or most decorous company, the doctor said, hazarding a furtive glance back at her that lasted only one appraising second. One too many house calls. I wasn’t able to stop back at the surgery.

That explained the state of his cuffs, at least; but that meant he wasn’t early. Jane looked at the clock and winced. An hour had passed while she wasn’t looking. She wasn’t ready. She was still wearing her reading glasses, and she could feel a smudge of ink on her temple. Mr. Cunningham’s account books lay spread out before her.

She was not making the best first impression to aid her suit.

Don’t worry, Mr. Cunningham said, closer now but still out of sight. You will find that this isn’t a peacocking courtship.

The doctor’s cheeks pinked. "I understand, but I have given it some thought, and I

must—"

Before you continue, her guardian said, cutting him off, I want to remind you that you have not heard her logic yet. I think you should.

It had been Mr. Cunningham who had presented the match to Dr. Lawrence last week on her behalf, when the doctor had come round to evaluate his lungs in preparation for the Cunninghams’ great move to Camhurst, capital of Great Breltain and a full day’s ride away from Larrenton. However her guardian had framed the proposition, it had been enough to get the doctor here, now, today.

Looking very pale and very nervous. Looking like he was about to flee.

Please do let me explain, Jane said, grateful that her voice came out more than a whisper. The doctor turned to her again, lips slightly parted in surprise, whatever protest he’d been about to

voice—whatever

demurring—silenced

.

Mr. Cunningham laughed and appeared in the doorway at last. Ah, that explains what waylaid you.

"I apologize, I hadn’t meant

to… spy

, Dr. Lawrence said, weakly. Miss Shoringfield."

Dr. Lawrence, she said, inclining her head in greeting. Will you allow me at least to make my argument in full?

The doctor looked between her and Mr. Cunningham and recoiled, the reflex of a cornered animal.

She was coming at this all wrong; she should have paid better mind to the time, met him in the sitting room as Mrs. Cunningham had planned out the night before. But they were here, now.

Save me, she thought at Mr. Cunningham.

The brandy, he said, not hearing her desperate thought, is in the sideboard.

And then, chuckling, he was gone.

Jane and the doctor regarded each other again across the space between door and desk, and Jane gestured, as gently as she could, to a chair. The doctor hesitated, but at last took a few tentative steps into the study. He didn’t sit. Jane turned from him and busied herself pouring two glasses.

As her hands moved, she summoned up the steps of her argument, and selected, for her opening, the strongest and least specific to her situation. Marriage is, at heart, a business arrangement, not one of hearts or souls, she said, without turning. It is best to discuss it plainly from the first.

She could hear his startled exhale.

Still too much. And yet she didn’t know how else to approach this. She had already botched whatever chance at a gentle introduction they might have had.

Keeping her back to him as she stoppered the decanter, she continued: "I have evaluated our options thoroughly, Dr. Lawrence. Leaving aside dances, which I suspect you have no time for, and childhood acquaintances, whom I haven’t seen in many years, there are few opportunities for courtship for us.

So I start from a premise of shared goals.

She listened for his fleeing footsteps.

They didn’t come.

Shared goals, he said instead. And what shared goals do we have? We have never met.

There was no derision in his tone, no mockery. He sounded wary, but curious. She seized on it and turned back to him. She came around the desk, holding out his glass from a respectable distance. He did not retreat; instead, he took it from her, careful to avoid brushing fingers.

We are both unmarried, and at an age where that is beginning to raise questions, she said. A man of your standing and appearance could choose whichever woman he wanted. You haven’t. For whatever reason, you do not wish for a normal marriage. I’m not asking for one.

She watched him, trying to measure his response. At first, there was something very much like want in his eyes, but then it was replaced by the fear again.

Why?

She took a small sip of her brandy to keep herself from fidgeting.

I cannot marry you, he said.

The brandy burned in her throat.

I don’t mean it as a slight against you, Miss Shoringfield, he added. "But while your logic

is—impressive

, it is not appropriate for me to take a wife. Any wife."

You are unmarried, Jane repeated, confused.

I am not married, he agreed. His jaw tensed as he considered his next words. The fear in his eyes had been replaced with something else. Something more distant, more pained. Please, Miss Shoringfield. I understand that you have thought through your proposal at length, but I do not wish to cause you more pointless effort. I cannot accept.

The polite, proper thing to do was to apologize, accept his refusal, and subside. Approach the next man on the list she had drafted, another who met her criteria, who might be more amenable. She needed to sit, and to smile, and yet she found she could do neither.

Dr. Lawrence, she said, gripping her glass tightly, "please."

He ducked his head.

My parents died when I was very young, when Ruzka began gassing Camhurst during the war, she started, then stopped, hands shaking. She hadn’t meant to say it; she never spoke of her parents. But her honesty worked a change in him; he lifted his chin, brows drawing together in concern. She pushed forward. They left me in Mr. Cunningham’s care, along with an annuity to support me. Here in Larrenton, it has been more than enough to cover my costs, even as I’ve grown into marriageable age. There is, however, no dowry, and now the Cunninghams leave for Camhurst within the month.

She fought to keep her voice even as she spoke.

"Were I to accompany

them—and

they have requested that I do just

that—my

expenses would outstrip my annuity even if I were to largely avoid society, which would be impossible given Mr. Cunningham’s new judgeship. And she would be surrounded by shell-scarred buildings and new construction that tried to replace what had been destroyed, none of which she could stomach even the thought of. But that was too personal to share, by far. They are willing to pay the difference, but I am not willing to let them."

The doctor’s mind worked. "But as you can’t remain here

unmarried…"

Exactly. If I’m to stay, I have to find a husband, or things will be quite a bit more difficult than even the capital would be.

He shook his head, finally looking at her again. "I understand your plight, and I feel for you, Miss Shoringfield, but you do have other options. Surely there are other options. You

are…"

His cheeks colored, and she remembered again how he’d looked at her from the doorway. Fear, fear that had been caused by her proposal hanging above his head like a sword, knowing he would have to decline. But perhaps it wasn’t just

fear—or

if it had been fear, it had been fear of a different sort than she’d first thought.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. I can’t imagine you will have much difficulty finding a more suitable husband.

You are a perfectly suitable husband, she said, steeling herself and stepping forward again. She could hear his breathing, they were so close. The wariness in his eyes was entirely gone now, replaced by fascination. And I am not asking you for charity, Dr. Lawrence. I have skills that would be useful to you.

Skills?

I attended Sharpton School for Girls until I was fifteen, she said. And I have kept Mr. Cunningham’s books for the last six years. I maintain the ledger, I work with the banks, I help him set his fees and collect on them. I can only imagine work of the same sort must be done at a surgery.

He sucked in a surprised breath. You weren’t speaking in metaphors when you said this was a business arrangement.

My remaining annuity funds are not so large as to directly benefit you, I suspect, she said. But I do bring mathematical skill, and a methodical nature. I can run the business of being a doctor, and you can focus on the medicine.

"You know nothing about a doctor’s life, about the business or the medicine."

I can learn. I want to learn.

He hesitated, stunned, then fumbled out, "There is blood, and great sadness, and terror. Being part of

it—it

won’t be easy. But it sounded less like a warning and more like a test. An invitation. It is a calling, not a skill."

"Ledgers and sums are my calling, just as medicine is yours. The rest I can learn, when the most important element is fulfilled."

"It is thankless, and I often won’t be home. Night calls,

and—"

But if this is a business arrangement, she interrupted, then it is more employment than marriage. I won’t mind your absence. You are suitable.

She had brought him to social concerns, down from professional; she was making progress. She held her breath.

He took a hasty swallow of brandy. He glanced toward the ceiling. Then he looked back at her, and said, You would be alone. I spend my nights at my family home, several miles out of town. It would be an inviolable condition, that you never join me there.

She nearly fell to her knees in relief. He had begun to consider. He hadn’t rejected her, not outright, not this time. She remained standing, but only barely, and managed to smile. "As I

said—you

are perfectly suitable."

From the way his brow creased, she’d surprised him again. You knew?

I have heard rumors, she said. He had only been in practice in Larrenton for a little over two months, and Jane was no gossipmonger, but the Cunninghams always knew something about everybody in town. Everybody knows you employ a runner at the surgery to fetch you, though most still think it’s because you’re often out on house calls at night. Only a few have noticed the extent of the waiting time, and how it’s consistently necessary to wait.

"You are observant," he said.

She laughed.

The sound prompted a final transformation in him. The fear left him entirely, and he regarded her, shoulders straight.

I should not marry you, he protested once more, but it was perfunctory.

A chance, she said. Give me a chance. Let me prove to you my worth. I will meet your conditions, if you will meet mine.

He thought a moment, then nodded. Very well. Come by the surgery. See what it is like in the particulars, instead of the abstract, before we make any binding decisions. There will likely be blood, and certainly hard work.

When shall I come by?

Tomorrow, midmorning. Wear clothing you don’t mind getting soiled. I’ll have you take a look at it all, the patient files, the finances, and you can sit in on any calls that come in. While sums may be your calling, you will still need to become something of a nurse, in case anybody arrives at the surgery in my absence.

Of course, she said. Tomorrow, then, Dr. Lawrence. I shall attempt to prove myself. And you can do your best to scare me off.

Jane made her way quickly across the center of town toward Dr. Lawrence’s surgery with the Cunninghams’ maid, Ekaterina, at her heels. Ekaterina was valiantly keeping up one side of a conversation: she had lived in Camhurst before coming to Larrenton, and was delighted to be returning, and with an improved position. Jane couldn’t blame

her—not

everybody in town was ready to trust a Ruzkan girl, not here, not even so many years after the

war—but

she could not summon up the slightest interest.

She was entirely fixated on thoughts of Dr. Lawrence and his surgery.

She’d told him the truth, the night before, about her reasons for marrying him. She was fairly certain he’d believed her. That was nice. Most men would have looked for an alternate cause, if Mrs. Cunningham was to be believed. And most men would not have accepted her eagerness to keep the marriage as a business arrangement, eschewing all the expected intimacies.

And yet it had been that premise that had won him. Miracle of miracles!

She’d told herself, when she realized that marrying was soon going to be the best option for her, that she could only marry if that distance was maintained. She wanted courteous indifference, not unwanted touches and a passel of children. She was not built for intimacy; she was built for numbers. For work.

Her guardians, the Cunninghams, were not built as she was. They had always been entirely proper in front of her, but Jane saw the way Mr. Cunningham looked at his wife, saw the shared easy touches as they passed in the hall. When they’d taken her in at her parents’ request, at the height of the war with their youngest child nearly full grown, they were still obviously in love. Jane admired them for it, but she was fully aware that the odds of her finding anything like they had were very low. She was not skilled at forming the sorts of emotional connections that affection seemed to require. No, a normal marriage was not for her. It would leave her harried and uncomfortable and resentful.

But some kind of marriage was a necessity, and so she had contrived to find a husband who would allow her to remain much as she had always been. And Dr. Lawrence, who lived well out of town and had to keep somebody in his place at his surgery, was impossible perfection. A man who wasn’t married, despite being in his early thirties, despite being a doctor, despite being, in his own way, quite

handsome—a

man like that had a reason as good as hers. It put them on equal footing, poised to make a mutually beneficial bargain.

Miss Shoringfield! Ekaterina called from behind her. Jane looked over her shoulder. She’d somehow managed to put a great deal of distance between herself and the girl over the last few streets. Jane readied an apology.

Ekaterina reached her side, smiling up at her. You certainly are excited, ma’am.

Her cheeks heated. Ekaterina had come to work for the Cunninghams only six months ago, but she had settled in quickly. To another woman, Ekaterina might have felt almost like a sister instead of a maid. She was certainly amiable enough.

The only problem was that Jane didn’t know how to be friendly. She could be polite, and kind, and could engage over work, but small talk had always been a struggle. Friendship had always been a struggle.

I think, Jane said, resuming her walk at a much more reasonable pace, you will find the surgery very boring.

Oh, I had not planned to go in with you, Ekaterina said cheerfully. I’ll get the shopping in, then perhaps walk you home after?

That sounds appropriate, Jane said. A younger, richer woman might have needed a chaperone, but the rest of the world had changed greatly over the last few decades. And

besides—this

was a business arrangement, not a courtship.

They walked the last few streets together. Between the Cunninghams’ home and the surgery were mainly private residences with a few shops on the ground floor. Almost all had been built at least a century before, though a few were newer, made of smooth concrete instead of old brick or stone, and lacking the worn sculptures on their lintels that people had once carved to protect their homes. The Cunninghams had one such figure, a face surrounded by wings that roosted just above the front door, and as a child, Jane had been fascinated with it. It was so similar to the carved downspouts that had loomed above her in Camhurst, but the ones she’d grown up with had been painted. Theirs was varnished wood.

She and Ekaterina turned the last corner toward the surgery, which put them once more on one of Larrenton’s main thoroughfares, alive with business in the clear weather. The street bustled with a mix of farmworkers, shoppers and shopkeeps, and visitors from farther afield. Larrenton was small enough to have only one doctor, but it was still a thriving town. Across the way, a small cluster of black-clad undertakers alighted from a retrofitted convent carriage and filed into a boardinghouse foyer.

Jane watched them a moment, their confident movements and swinging skirts. If the Cunninghams hadn’t taken her in, she might well have been one of their number. They were no longer dedicated to faith and ritual, but such women had always taken care of the dead, and many orphans had found sanctuary in their order.

She might have enjoyed that life.

But Ekaterina had not stopped to watch, and Jane had to hurry to catch up. They passed only a few more buildings before they reached the surgery. She slowed to a bare crawl as she approached the door, then turned and looked at Ekaterina. Come by in a few hours? The work will be done by then, I suspect. Her untrained part, at least.

Yes, ma’am. Ekaterina inclined her head and strolled off back to the main streets. Jane watched her go, then turned back to the surgery.

There were no steps up to the front door, the better to allow the injured and infirm to reach the doctor. The door itself was wide and a deep red, set into two stories of brick wall. The lintel here was similarly carved to the Cunninghams’, though this winged face was wreathed in incised laurels, and worn, nearly unreadable script down the sides of the doorframe. The building was old, built to house a previous physician of a previous era, with all the attendant faith behind it.

But Dr. Lawrence was a young, Camhurst-educated doctor; he likely held no truck with such superstitions. She wondered if he would have it all planed down or painted over.

She checked to make sure that her hair was still carefully pinned up beneath her black, broad-brimmed hat, then reached out and knocked.

The porter opened the door a moment later. He was an older man, perhaps once a laborer or even a prizefighter. He was stocky and muscular, and there was a faded scar across one side of his face, distorting the lay of his faint growth of stubble. He smiled at her, his cheeks a bit rosy from the day’s chill. Jane suspected her own nose was bright red.

Miss Shoringfield? he asked.

Yes, she said, surprised and pleased at being awaited by name. The doctor asked me to assist today.

He stepped back, motioning her in. He’s just finishing up something upstairs. He said to tell you to feel free to explore, though not to touch anything in the operating theater. I’ve got some tea on, if you don’t want to get into the nasty business right away. The butcher’s boy brought over some sausages, too. Can I take your hat and coat?

Jane felt herself smiling back, infected by his good cheer. Dr. Lawrence was widely known to be quiet, reserved, hard to read and unsociable, but generally kind and likable. His porter appeared much the same, which spoke to good judgment on the doctor’s part.

Oh, thank you, but I think I shouldn’t give my stomach any ammunition for the day, Jane replied, stepping into the house. She looked around as she unbuttoned her burgundy coat and handed it to the man along with her hat. The hallway was filled with a stale, acrid stench that she tried to ignore, but her stomach flinched in warning. Books. She was best with books, not blood. At least chances seemed good that once she was working here properly, most coming to the surgery would be here from indigestion, or something else that could be solved by a small sit-down and a check of their files. The most ill would be bound to their homes.

She assumed.

What’s your name? she asked, turning back to the porter.

Mr. Lowell, he said, inclining his head.

And you fetch him when he’s out of town, yes?

That, and help him move heavier patients, keep the kitchen stocked, that sort of thing. Though I suppose you’ll be helping with the kitchen more in the future, eh?

Jane flushed. He said that?

Mr. Lowell chuckled. In a fashion. Never expected him to take a shine to somebody, to tell the truth.

A shine? Oh, no. Her stomach leapt in an altogether different manner at that, and she absently curled her hands over her belly to still it.

Mr. Lowell’s glance dropped down.

She lowered her hands, flushing. She was going to give him cause to spread rumors of alternate causes, and she couldn’t have that. To tell the truth, last night was the first time we met.

Truly?

How much to tell? He didn’t know about the marriage arrangement, and now he knew she wasn’t with

child—at

least, not the doctor’

s—so

she concluded he knew about as much as he needed to. Yes, strange, isn’t it? I never thought to be a nurse, she said, then took a few steps down the hall. Best to change the subject. Does he keep an office on this floor?

Aye, first door on the right.

Am I allowed in?

He made a point of it, said you might look at his books.

She quashed a small, pleased smile. His cooperation was a good sign, and beyond that, it made her feel welcome. Hopeful. Perhaps Mr. Lowell was only reading too much into that cooperation; in any other case a man being so amenable to a young woman would likely be read as affection.

Thank you, Mr. Lowell. I think I’ll be fine from here, and I’ve kept you awhile now.

Not a problem, miss, Mr. Lowell said, then inclined his head and went to a set of doors that she guessed led to the operating theater. The acrid smell increased for a moment as he opened one and slipped through it.

Jane looked at the hallway a moment longer. There were no portraits in the whole hall, and only one or two landscapes, right near the door and front sitting area. But there were some framed photographic prints of nebulous things. The daguerreotype closest to her appeared to be of a gnarled piece of wood. She frowned at it, puzzled, then made her way to his office.

The door stood open, and inside was a perfectly ordinary and clean room. Dr. Lawrence had a sizable desk that was in a much worse state than Mr. Cunningham’s, but beyond that, the room was spotless. There were two chairs across from the desk, as well as a large armchair by the far window, with a raised cushion to put one’s feet up onto. The walls were bare save for several bookshelves and cabinets behind the doctor’s desk.

Settling her reading glasses on her nose, Jane peered at the various drifts of paper, finding hastily scribbled notes with names in large script at the top right of each page. The cabinets, when opened, revealed row upon row of small folders, also all labeled with names, as well as a pad of preprinted paper. Ah. A look back at the desk showed a few leaves of that paper, with carefully written notes all in order, and the same name on top as a few of the closest note pages. He was transcribing the important notes into a neater system, she realized.

Quite clever, and helpful for her.

Before she could begin reading, however, some organization was called for. She set about tidying the piles and retrieving sheets that had fallen to the floor. She was reconsidering Mr. Lowell’s offer of tea when Dr. Lawrence cleared his throat from the office doorway.

Dr. Lawrence. She stood up from his desk, guilty as if she’d been caught peeping in his washroom. He didn’t look annoyed, however, as he entered the office and surveyed the stacks she’d made. He didn’t even look embarrassed.

As you can see, he said, your skills would be much appreciated. Hypothetically speaking. If you are not too frightened by what you’ve found?

Hardly. She squared her shoulders. Where is your logbook? Of patient transactions?

I don’t have one, he said.

She frowned at him.

He lifted his hands in defense. I intend to have one. But as I only bill at the end of the year, I intend to reconstruct based on my notes.

That’s a great way to miss out on money that may already be difficult to collect, she said. "Not only that, but you must need to replenish your supplies

regularly—Mr

. Cunningham has far fewer expenses, and he bills once every two months. I require that he keep a daily log of his work to make it simpler and more accurate. He balked at doing it by the minute, but a list of documents he creates, or procedures, in your case, is easy enough."

He looked at her a moment, stunned into silence, then shook his head in wonder. You really are skilled at this, aren’t you?

I have a lot of practice. I’m sure you understand that they’re different things.

Different, but often related.

She flushed with pride, and began to pace to disguise it. Do you at least keep a list of what medications you’ve prescribed?

In patient notes.

No, I mean an ordering list. How do you track inventory?

He tapped his brow. The age-old skill of eyeballing.

That won’t do at all.

Without somebody like you assisting, while all that work would be very helpful, it’s not particularly time-effective for me. I aim to survive and help others survive, Miss Shoringfield. That’s the extent of it.

Well, and now you have me.

The words were out of her mouth before she could think better of them, and she firmed up her lips and straightened her shoulders to mask the sudden frisson of embarrassment that went through her. Too much.

Dr. Lawrence turned away, briefly tugging at his collar. You’ve certainly convinced me to employ you, he said. "But

marrying—"

Is essentially the same thing.

It certainly is not, he said. "I’m not sure what kind of man you take me for, but I wouldn’

t—a

nurse in my

employ—such

intimacy—it

’s insulting, Miss Shoringfield." But he didn’t sound insulted. He

sounded—

Flustered.

Frustrated.

He’d clearly been thinking about the implications of a marriage since last night’s talk. She should have been relieved that he’d come to the same

conclusion—that

intimacy was not appropriate or

desirous—but

instead she felt her own cheeks burning. Best to get this out of the way formally, though. She removed her glasses, rubbing them clean on her dress. I suppose a marriage would need to be consummated, legally, she conceded.

Dr. Lawrence choked, then turned back to stare at her incredulously. You suppose, he echoed.

"I am sure, though, that we can find a way to balance the statutory requirements with how we wish to conduct the marriage. But if you feel I misrepresented anything last

night—"

She was interrupted by a sharp, loud banging on the front door, followed by the harried ringing of the bell and Mr. Lowell’s footsteps, fast and heavy, in the hallway. A muffled cry of pain from outside. The doctor’s troubled expression disappeared, his features blank and still save for the focused light in his eyes. He rolled up his sleeves.

Miss Shoringfield, he said, voice wholly transformed. Please go into the operating room; leave both doors wide open. There are aprons and gowns in there. Have one ready for me.

I—

The front door opened, and Jane could hear screaming.

Now, Miss Shoringfield.

Jane sprang into action, dashing across the hall to the operating theater. Mr. Lowell had left one door open, and she pulled the other one out of the way. She could hear a woman talking, fast, voice high-pitched in panic, as Jane looked around for the aprons. She found them on a coat stand out of the way, and pulled down one of them, then turned as the cacophony reached the doorway.

Mr. Lowell and another man were carrying the screaming patient, a heavy-boned, broad-shouldered laborer who was clutching his belly. Get it out! he cried. Get it out, I didn’t mean it! Blood pulsed from between his fingers, through the soaked fabric of his shirt, spattering on the floor.

Jane swayed on her feet, then clenched her jaw, determined to stay upright.

Behind the man an older woman clasped bloody hands around Dr. Lawrence’s forearm. I heard him screaming from the woodshop, she said. "He had the knife, he was cutting, I don’t

know—"

Get it out! the man bellowed again, thrashing. Mr. Lowell nearly lost his grip.

Dr. Lawrence turned to the woman and murmured something with a nod of his head toward the door. He pried her fingers up so slowly Jane wanted to scream along with the patient, but when he was free, the woman disappeared back into the hallway.

He crossed the floor to where she stood, as behind him Mr. Lowell and the volunteer assistant hoisted the bleeding man onto the table.

Trembling, Jane draped the apron over Dr. Lawrence’s head, and he turned so she could fasten it down the sides. Then he took her by the hand and pulled her over to a filled basin.

Antiseptic. Wash your hands, Miss Shoringfield. Thoroughly. Rub under your nails, too.

She did as she was told, then tuned back to the table. Mr. Lowell had strapped the patient down at the chest, wrists, and legs. The volunteer who’d helped carry the patient stared as the man thrashed and howled. Mr. Lowell pulled a protective cover off an array of tools.

Mr. Rivers, the doctor said, and the volunteer dragged his gaze away from the patient. Please step outside. Miss Shoringfield, with me. Dimly, she realized she hadn’t thought to grab an apron for herself, but one look at the patient told her why the doctor hadn’t reminded her.

They didn’t have time.

Through the sodden, gaping fabric of the man’s shirt, Jane could see that his belly was split open. A makeshift bandage had been wrapped around it, but he had torn at it, pressing the ragged edges inside the flesh. Dr. Lawrence surveyed it in barely two seconds.

Miss Shoringfield, I need your hands, he said. Before she could question him, he took one of her hands in his, clamping it over one side of the slit in the patient’s belly, fingers around the separated flesh. She held on even as the man gave another bellow and the slippery skin heaved in her grip. Dr. Lawrence guided her other hand to the other side. Hold the wound open. Mr. Lowell, wash your hands, then get me a flushing bulb.

He grabbed up a pair of shears and made quick work of the patient’s shirt, then cleared the rest of the bandage away from the wound. Jane’s fingers trembled. Blood covered her hands, seeping beneath her nails, and it stank. Spirits take her, but it stank. She’d never seen this much blood in her life, and it was slippery, and hot, and more of it forced against her hands and pooled in the too-large gap in the patient’s skin with every rapid, desperate pulse of his heart. He was still conscious beneath her hands, still screaming, still moving, and every heaving breath he took made the inside of his wound rise and fall with it.

Mr. Lowell returned to the table and passed Dr. Lawrence a glass tube with a rubber balloon set above it. Dr. Lawrence squeezed the balloon and water surged into the wound, diluting the blood and forcing it from its pool.

Beneath it, she saw gleaming multihued ropes. Ropes, like sausage casings. Bile rose in her throat.

She hadn’t known what a man looked like on the inside, before. He looked like meat. Brutal, horrible meat.

He’s cut all the way through. Dr. Lawrence did not curse, and did not stop with horror. He spoke with what could have been cold detachment in another man, but in him it was an attentive declaration, a statement of truth that helped orient and ground Jane in the moment.

He could fix this.

He had to fix this.

The doctor left her side, moving to the patient’s head and pressing a cloth soaked with ether to his nose and mouth, the fumes burning her nostrils even where she stood. The thrashing lessened, and the howls that had become an unending, unchanging background noise turned to low, vague moans. Dr. Lawrence lifted the cloth and looked directly at her.

He is going to ask if I can handle this, Jane thought. Please,