“You know very well you can only get malaria once,” Eilian finally replied as he gazed up at his dumbfounded friend. “They are burns this time.”
With a shake of his head, the daze was broken. “How? What happened to you?” Hawthorne’s mind raced to the articles and the growing list of fatalities he had seen all over the papers that week. “Were you in that airship crash?”
Eilian nodded as he motioned for Patrick to turn on the gas lamps with a twist of his hand.
“You already look as if you have been taken care of. Why did you call me? I’m a coroner now, not a surgeon.”
“Who better to stave off death than one who is so well acquainted with it?” He raised his arm to show the growing bloodstain. “Truthfully, my stitches snapped. I trust you, you know I do, and I would like you to take a look at what the others have done.”
The doctor washed his hands in the adjoining bathroom and moved to his friend’s side but froze as his eyes came to rest on his torso. “Are those maggots?” he asked, his voice sharpening with a tinge of panic.
Stuck to his bandages were white flecks. “Oh, it’s rice actually. It was from my dinner.”
He opened his mouth to speak but decided against it. “I won’t even ask. Sinclair, when were his bandages changed last?”
“Last night,” Patrick began. “The doctors were dismissed this afternoon and weren’t able to properly show me how to change them.”
James Hawthorne nodded, rolling up his sleeves. He pulled a small pair of scissors from his bag along with half a dozen rolls of gauze and a squat, glass jar filled with opaque gunk. He carefully clipped the end of the bandage and began to unroll what remained of Eilian’s right arm. The top of his arm near the shoulder was an inflamed red and full of sovereign-sized deflated blisters, but closer to what remained of his elbow, the skin disappeared and what was left was nearer to the consistency of raw meat.
Eilian tried not to look as his arm was laid bare, but the moment he had seen it inside the dying dirigible flooded back. The corporeal devastation and the unforgettable smell of seared flesh had been no hallucination. All the patches of brown and black had been removed by the previous doctors to reveal the inner workings of his limb, except for the bone which was covered over with a patch of only mildly burnt skin. He finally averted his eyes as James passed the needle through the relocated skin that had been torn away and leaked blood. After a moment of cringing and bracing for the pain, he realized he could not feel the needle or thread sliding through the flesh.
“Will the feeling ever return at the end?”
“It may,” the doctor replied, never glancing up from his work. “Burns are odd and so are nerves. You never quite know what they are going to do. Thus far, your previous doctors did a very thorough job with the debridement, and the skin patch looks like it may survive. You are going to be scarred from this, especially on your arm and chest where the burns are very deep.”
Hawthorne rubbed the slimy ointment down the length of the gauze and began the laborious process of rewrapping. As he turned to work on Eilian’s torso, he frowned. At least four rolls of gauze had been twisted around him in every direction as if he had been attacked by a colony of tipsy spiders. When he finished untangling the mess, he could make out an odd shaped mark on his ribs amongst the deflated blisters and peeling skin. It was glossy and perfectly round with a skinny, twisted line following it. Small yelps and seething grimaces escaped Eilian’s lips as the ointment was applied directly to the wounds.
“How is Eliza?” Eilian choked out through clenched teeth as he gripped the edge of the covers in his fist and curled his toes.
“As beautiful as always.” James smiled. “She’s talking me into a holiday in Egypt to visit the Great Pyramids again and Hatshepsut’s mortuary temple.”
“You should go. She will love it, and so will you. Egypt is beautiful.”
His mind drifted back to the Hawthornes’ wedding. Everyone seemed so surprised when Eliza married, but Eilian never was. James was liberal-minded and had been raised with four older, strong-willed sisters. He always thought of Eliza as independent and free spirited, but above all else, she was the most intelligent person he knew. She was knowledgeable on nearly any subject but was shunned by the other doctors’ wives for it.
“Doesn’t Eliza get bored at home all day?”
Hawthorne pulled Eilian forward to wrap the gauze around his back. “At home, yes, but she isn’t there all the time. She likes to accompany me when I lecture at the university. She has access to the library if she uses my name, and she also helps me with autopsies and gathers whatever I need from the shops.” He sighed. “Honestly, it’s really all below her talents unfortunately. These holidays we go on help to break up the monotony for her and hopefully will bolster her spirits.”
He clumsily dropped Eilian back into a sitting position. “I hope you know, James, you handle your patients like corpses.”
The doctor grinned and made quick work of changing the dressings on Eilian’s leg and his other stitches. He then looked down his throat, checking for inhalation burns but instead was hit with what he could only imagine was the dragon breath created by red pepper and curry. Considering what he had gone through, the archaeologist appeared to be in surprisingly good spirits.
“You’re in rather good shape, but I have to wonder how you damaged your arm so severely. Do you remember what happened?”
He sighed. The whole incident came only in bursts of color and sensation. There was smoke and the call of voices in the distance before— “I was trying to get out, but I became disoriented. I remember a loud groan, and suddenly one of the support beams was on top of me.”
James shook his head, wiping the blood and petroleum from his hands with a scrap of gauze. “I am so sorry about all this, Eilian.”
“At least I’m not throwing up,” he laughed softly, his ribs aching with each chuckle. “So how long will I be stuck in bed?”
Hawthorne washed his hands in the bathroom but called over his shoulder, “As soon as you are strong enough, you can move around.”
Patrick’s eyes bulged in their sockets as he pictured Lord Sorrell attempting to conquer the stairs the moment the doctor left. “Are you positive he should be mobile in this state?”
“The thing is, burns tend to web together if one is stationary for too long. I tried to wrap everything separately to prevent that, but getting up as soon as possible will probably be best.”
Color flushed Eilian’s eyes and cheeks. “That’s wonderful!”
“Don’t look too excited. You are not to attempt the stairs until you can walk on your own, and I want you to use Sinclair for support until you are strong enough. Until you’re at least three-quarters of the way healed, there will be no jumping, running, fighting, climbing, or heavy-lifting. You will never heal if you continually open your wounds from overexertion. Sinclair is to send for me if you are not following my orders, and then, I will sentence you to bed rest.”
“The other doctors suggested I give him a bland diet until he was recovered,” Patrick blurted as he wrung his hands.
James rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Pure quackery. He can have whatever he wants. Give him bland food, and he will die of melancholy.” Despite the bruising, his friend still looked himself, cheerful and bright-eyed. “You will have to wait until the swelling goes down, but I know a wonderful prosthesis maker in the city. I will give you the address when I return tomorrow to change your dressings.”
Chapter Four:
The Craftsman’s Requiem
The craftsman sat at his work bench, staring blankly at his latest project. A prosthetic arm of porcelain and metal laid in pieces before him. Pain radiated through his ribs as a dull, itching ache, but he resisted the persistent urge to cough to keep from alerting his younger sister. He drew in a deep breath. In the past, he had been able to create a detailed, highly functional prosthesis in less than a fortnight, but recently, it had taken him at least a month or more f
or even the simplest creation now that he barely worked more than a few hours each day. He looked out at his kingdom of wood-shavings and dust. On the other side of the room, his sister’s automatons laid in boxes or in pieces ready to be assembled. She was always working, but he only had one project left. The artisan had slept all night and nearly half the day, yet he could feel his eyelids drooping. As he drew in a crackling breath, a string of forceful coughs escaped his lips. In the palm of his hand was a splatter of gooey, carmine blood. It happened so often now that it barely bothered him to see his own blood and torn tissue. The boards in the hall creaked, so he quickly wiped away the blood with his handkerchief, stuffed it in his pocket, and grabbed his screwdriver.
“George, I brought you some lunch,” Hadley called cheerfully behind him as she came in with his lunch tray.
Her older brother’s blue eyes and red hair matched her own but had dulled as his consumption progressed. She laid a bowl of soup and a sandwich on the table and peeked over his shoulder at the numerous pieces of an unfinished arm and hand. Lovingly wrapping her arms around his neck, she stood on tiptoe until her cheek was resting on the top of his head. He held onto her arms and smiled. The icy chill of his palms made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
“How’s the arm coming along?”
“Good, I’m just taking a moment to visualize how it will turn out.”
Her eyes ran over the perfectly molded fingers affixed to a thin sheet of brass. “It already looks amazing. I hope I can be as good as you one day.”
“You already are,” he replied warmly. “Your automatons are more beautiful than anything I could dream up.”
She kissed his cheek. “No, you are the best. Always have been, always will be.”
George smiled weakly to himself. He wondered how long that would truly be. “Want to play a little game with me?” When she grinned, he continued, “Can you tell me anything about the person this prosthesis is being made for?”
Hadley gingerly picked up the plate of fingers and measured them against her own. They were longer and thicker without bulk or the nodules of arthritis. “Whoever this is for is taller than me, probably between five foot eight and five foot eleven. The fingers are not overly delicate but not gnarled like someone who has been working since they were young.”
Placing them down, she moved on to the beginnings of a forearm, which was still in pieces. She stacked the pieces into their future shape. “The arm is fairly muscular, so unless this was done for vanity, the owner works or is an athlete. Though it could be a burly woman, my guess is the owner is male.”
“Very good so far,” George replied with a nod. “How old do you think he is?”
Lying on a distant table near a stack of automata molds was a poured plaster cast of the left arm George had been using as a reference for the proportions of its twin. It had been taken from its owner’s remaining limb and beside it was the cast of a gnarled and scarred stump of a right arm. The left was shapely and strong but far from bulky. Hadley ran her fingers over his hand, which was smooth with only a few veins and nearly no damage from time. “Maybe mid- to late-twenties.”
“You astound me. You have read those Dupin stories too often, and now, you have a true eye for observation.”
As his sister blushed proudly, he grinned, revealing a sticky coating of blood over his teeth. The color rapidly drained from her face as she watched George’s thin chest heave with each thick, labored breath. Hadley’s heart sunk, beating off rhythm as she took in her brother’s cheerful face. Even on the best of days, his eyes were sunken and framed by greying skin. The bones jutted from his face and hands despite regular meals, eroding away the handsome man he had once been. The disease was gnawing at him from the inside out, consuming his fragile billows breath by labored breath. She was about to move back to the stool beside him when a wet breath hitched in his throat, sending out a series of forceful coughs that yanked at his ribs and stomach. Hadley patted his back to loosen the blood and winced as he gripped his breast and struggled against the spasms. The desperation with which his body screamed and gasped for air put her stomach in knots. With each measured breath, his ribs loosened, and finally he wiped the blood from his pale lips.
“I will get you cleaned up,” she whispered before hurrying to fetch a basin from the kitchen.
His gaunt features and hands were spattered with flecks of blood. He loosely clutched his now ruined handkerchief, but his sister pulled it from his grasp. Dipping a fresh cloth into the basin, she rinsed and rubbed each of his chilled, boney fingers and palms clean before wiping his mouth as gently as she would a child. Her older brother smiled softly as she kissed his freckled cheeks again and hugged him close, lingering to inhale his familiar scent of wood-shavings with a hint of metal.
Hadley sat on her stool and pushed the tray of food closer to him. “Why don’t you put the arm away for a bit and have something to eat? You need to keep up your strength.”
He shook his head. “I have wasted enough time working on the prosthesis for Lord Sorrell. After I finish the hand, I will eat.”
“Give it to me. I will work on it for you.”
Without waiting for George’s consent, she slid the half-built arm in front of her and replaced it with the tray. As he finally dipped into his soup, she screwed the remaining bent fingers to the brass plate and moved on to the thumb. Looking down at the prosthesis, she realized she had made more progress in five minutes than he had made in three days. Hadley slowed her pace. She loved him too much to take his pride and joy away from him. He needed work like this now more than ever to keep his mind off things. No matter how sick he was, she was amazed by her brother’s craftsmanship. The prosthesis was beautiful with its five perfect replica fingers and a smooth palm complete with lines, but it had become something upon which her brother’s life was being measured. More than anything, she wanted it out of the house.
Hadley leisurely shined and assembled the little pieces until she heard the tray slide against the work bench. “I can’t eat anymore.”
His sister frowned as she inventoried what was left on the plate, but he had done his best. Before stepping out, she hugged him again as was her custom and carried the nearly full tray back to the kitchen. As she dumped the remaining contents into the rubbish bin, she felt Adam’s eyes burning into her back. From the corner of her eye, she could see his dark red hair and bright blue vest as he sat at the table. Hadley resisted the urge to whip around and demand what he was staring at, so she kept scrubbing the dish and plate.
“Why haven’t you finished the viscount’s arm yet?” he asked a little more nicely than she expected.
“Because George is working on it.”
“But he won’t finish it.”
“What do you mean? He finishes everything.”
“Hadley,” she dropped the dish cloth upon hearing her name, “you know what I mean. You know he made his will last week. He left everything to us. Why pretend when even he knows?”
She finally whirled around, her red braid smacking her back as she met her twin’s light-eyed gaze. “How dare you wish your own brother into the grave!” she replied in a harsh whisper. “He has had relapses before, and he has pulled through every time.”
Adam rubbed his henna temples and drew in a deep breath. “George has never been this sick before. He looks like death already! I just want you to brace yourself for what may happen to him. You have to believe that I don’t say this to hurt you.”
“But I don’t believe you. You have always been jealous of his genius, his success, his ability to be liked by everyone. Now, you rejoice in your own brother’s illness for your own sick pleasure!” She dropped her voice. “I will have no part in your sick fantasies, Adam.”
As Hadley turned to leave, her twin caught her arm. Staring into her tearing, blue eyes, he pleaded, “I say all this because I love you. I don’t want you to fall to pieces when I’m proven right for once. I know you love him, but I just want you to be realistic. I’m
not wishing ill on him. I love him too, but I saw you working on the arm—”
“That blasted arm again! Why are you fixated on this project? Let George work on it, and it will get done!”
“But it won’t, and Lord Sorrell is a paying customer who deserves a new limb in a timely manner.”
“It’s all he has left!” she seethed through clenched teeth as she defiantly wrenched her arm out of his hand. “Can you not allow him the one pleasure he has left?”
“You aren’t doing him any favors by carrying on like this, Hadley.”
“How would you know? You do not spend any time with him or worry about him. All you do is count his money.” When his eyes finally left hers, she continued, “Do you know how many nights I lie awake listening for a cough, so I know he is alive? Every night I stay up listening for that sound of life, so I know it will be a good day. Do you ever? No, I didn’t think you did.”
She fled the room with tears burning her eyes. George’s bedroom door slammed as she prepared to fix his bed for his afternoon nap. Adam sat back in the well-worn kitchen chair and closed his eyes as a feeble cough crackled from the workroom. Was he really as horrible a brother as she made him out to be? Even if he didn’t hug him or make his bed, he loved George like a second father. His sister was his best friend, but no matter what he did, it was never the right thing for her. All he wanted was for everything to be all right.
***
Hadley Fenice sat in bed leaning against the wall with her head pressed to the plaster that separated her from her older brother. One more cough, and she could go to sleep. She tugged the blankets closer against the chill of the dying fire. Her hair haloed around her head and shoulders as she held her knees and let her back nestle within the corner. The long hours of silence had taken their toll on her, and slowly her hands slackened before sliding off her legs as she drifted to sleep.
The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set Page 3
