Carry On

by Celia Lake

  This, at least, Elen had expected. She hadn’t served in the Healing Temple proper since her apprenticeship, and most of the people who’d known her well were elsewhere, now. She’d never been skilled at coming to the notice of the influential people, so she didn’t have notable nurses or healers vouching for her. She had known she’d have to prove that she was calm and competent, and all the more so since she’d been sent home from useful work at the front.

  When they were in the next ward, there was a little sharp nod, a hint of approval. “The wards are all on the same basic layout. Supply closet there. Staff room there. The ward facing is the same plan, reversed, of course. The bell there will summon any nurse on call to the proper room. You won’t answer those. You are to be with him from before morning rounds through supper, with only brief breaks for the necessities and your shrine duties. There is an orderly at night, and to assist as needed with bathing and rehabilitation exercises.” She gestured at the hallway. Elen took the hint

  “You may have a book or knitting, or some other appropriate quiet occupation with you. He dozes much of the time. We have bandages to roll, of course, as well, you’ll be expected to do your quota.”

  “Yes, sister. May I ask more about his treatments? Or condition? I haven’t seen his file yet.”

  “That is classified, Ministry orders.” That came out tight and clipped. “You are to ignore anything he tells you when he is non compos mentis.” Elen got the sense, suddenly, that Sister Almeda did not approve at all, but was not going to permit herself to so much as hint openly at that. She could see no way to ask about it, though, not without seeming difficult.

  “His healer, Senior Healer Cole, has prescribed a regimen of potions. One of his juniors will come by on rounds.” That was a little unusual, though perhaps Major Gospatrick had been here for long enough to become uninteresting to his healer. Elen didn’t approve. Junior healers needed to learn, but she didn’t think much of a senior healer who didn’t check in regularly. There had been a senior healer at the Temple of Youth who’d spent his days in his posh office, or out chatting with the better-off families, and Elen had little patience for that kind of sloth.

  “Has Healer Cole placed any limitations on rehabilitative approaches?” Some did, and it always made her work more difficult. Worse, too many healers thought they knew that side of the work better than the nurses who’d trained in it.

  “Ordinary rehabilitative practices are permitted, exercises and walks, taking him to the courtyard if you think it appropriate. His prior nurses have agreed with Healer Cole that this seemed unlikely to have much benefit. No magical work other than the first and second codex.” Warming and relaxing charms, the variants any Alethorpe healing student learned by their second year, if not earlier.

  Elen frowned. “May I ask why a nurse is with him at all times?” She also didn’t think much of the fact Major Gospatrick appeared to have been stuck in the same room for weeks at a time, but it would not do to say so.

  “He becomes disorientated. It is thought better to have someone who can reorient him.” Sister Almeda made the kind of delicate pause that Elen had learned to pay close attention to. “The Ministry and Army officials have been insistent on his participation in recruitment efforts, and it would benefit the Temple for him to be able to take on more of that work.”

  Elen nodded. She could hear the unstated command there, that it was up to her to build his strength and stamina. “Yes, Sister.” Elen thought anyone who’d been invalided out with serious and mysterious injuries at the rank of Major had already done rather a lot for the war effort. But she knew to keep that opinion to herself.

  “He may ask you to read to him, from books of his choice, but we do not generally make newspapers available to patients at this time.” Given how little of the news seemed good these days, Elen could not quite argue. One never knew when some particular report might strike like elf-shot for a given person, either, tangling up their magic and their healing and their sense of self.

  “Does Major Gospatrick have a particular routine?” Back at the Temple of Youth, she’d have been presented with a properly formatted schedule, the best ways to contact the primary Healer, and half a dozen necessary documents. Here, there had been none of that.

  “A bath in the afternoon, meals as provided by the orderlies.” Sister Almeda’s voice was increasingly crisp.

  “No visitors, then, Sister?” Elen could not help but be puzzled by several things here. The isolation of someone who was supposed to be of interest seemed quite odd, but also, no one seemed to be considering the implications. On one hand, the Major rated a nurse of his own. But that sort of person usually had influential family or friends checking in.

  “One, early on, a woman about his age, no one since, other than the Ministry and Army gentlemen. Here we are.” Elen wondered why only the one. Perhaps he did not have family, or they were elsewhere in the Empire. Sister Almeda walked briskly down the hallway to a room at the furthest possible corner, tucked away in the back of the complex.

  Elen considered where they must be. The wall and tunnels must be right beyond this end of the building, the network that separated the laundries and storerooms and kitchens from the Temple itself. It would be very quiet back here, with little to interrupt rest - but also little to engage the mind or the eye. She did not like that at all, but she had no idea how to ask if it were deliberate or an accident of which room opened up at which time.

  Sister Almeda rapped twice on the door frame of the last door on the right, and there was a faint noise from inside, a grumbling. The light was dim, just a bedside lamp, that cast a dull golden light that didn’t really illuminate much at all.

  “Good morning, Major Gospatrick. Let’s get you more light, and a bit of fresh air.” Sister Almeda’s voice was now the false brightness many nurses put on with patients, rather than the sharper clipped tones she’d been using with Elen.

  The man in the bed made another noise, working up a protest, that Sister Almeda thoroughly ignored.

  “Therapeutes Morris has been assigned to attend to your healing, Major Gospatrick. She served here in the temple some years ago, during her training, and elsewhere, since. I’m sure she has some new stories for you.” The window open, she adjusted the overhead light to shine more brightly.

  It let Elen get her first proper look at her new patient. Blonde, very much in the heroic mode, she thought. He was squinting slightly, the kind of furrow in his brow that she got when her migraines made all the light too much. The Archiater, at least, had been informative when he’d mentioned Major Gospatrick was light sensitive. She’d fix that, as soon as she could. His injuries, whatever they were, were not too obvious. Both hands, unscarred. Both feet, beneath the blankets and sheets, one knee slightly bent.

  He was wearing silk pyjamas, so he was a man of some money, then, and not so ill they worried about him spoiling them. His face, now, that was interesting. He had the broad forehead and sharp chin of Albion’s finest young men, though she thought he was not too much younger than she was. Early thirties, perhaps. The lines in his face, the darker spots under his eyes, made that harder to read.

  She had been cued by the Archiater’s comments, of course, but she felt some slight sense of miasma there. As a concept for physical health, the idea was ridiculous, of course, but nurses were trained to look for the slight signs of a disruption in someone’s magic or essence. In this case, it was as if there were a murky fog around him, faint but enough to fade everything. Or perhaps more like a whiff of mold or damp. Soggy was the adjective that came to mind, or maybe it was more like something silted up.

  The room itself, as she got a chance to look, showed all the signs of a long-term resident. There was a comfortable easy chair by the bed, so she would at least not be straining herself to spend hours there. It was not the sort of thing you had on a surgical ward, or infectious disease where cleanliness was the greatest concern. A second chair, this one wooden, stood on the other side of the window. A
dressing gown hung on a hook on the wall, and there was a small bookshelf, with a dozen volumes. On top, there were some simple yellow flowers in a vase, likely from the temple maidens, as a token of cheeriness.

  A narrow table, facing the bed, held the usual array of necessary items, a pitcher for water, a cloth laid out with a thermometer and various other small nursing tools. Good, she wouldn’t need to go search those out. A folding table for meals was leaning beside it.

  However, there were no photographs, nor any other personal effects in evidence, though the bookshelf had a larger scrapbook that might be relevant. There was a small wardrobe in the corner, and the room was big enough it didn’t feel too crowded. The door cracked open to one side led to a tiled room. A lavatory, possibly also a private bath.

  “Sister.” His voice sounded tired. “Would you tell Healer Cole I would like a word, when he comes round?” There was a quiet resignation there, as if he’d asked the same thing a dozen times before with the same non-answer.

  “I will note it on your chart.” Then there was a little chime, like a portable version of a clock, from Sister Almeda’s own watchfob. She glanced at it. “Pardon, I’m needed elsewhere. Therapeutes, an orderly will be by with luncheon at noon, and to help with Major Gospatrick’s bath at two. During his bath, come report to my office.”

  “Yes, Sister.” Elen refrained from bobbing, but stood at attention, waiting a moment. Then she peered out into the hallway, making sure Sister Almeda was indeed on her way out of the ward, before she turned back. “I agree that it’s stuffy in here, but I think you would prefer a bit less light, am I right?”

  Chapter 3

  Roland’s room, the same day

  Roland blinked at the figure at the window. She was lit from behind, putting her face in shadow. Another healer. No. His head ached already, still. Therapeutes. Nurse. Whatever.

  “Less light?” Her voice was crisp, practised, but she was expecting an answer of some kind.

  He nodded and regretted it immediately. He’d woken up with a splitting headache. It wasn’t caused by his evening potion, though that left him feeling awful in entirely different ways. Not that that got him out of taking it. He’d tried arguing. Once he’d even tried fighting, and he’d gotten pinned down. A pair of orderlies had appeared from nowhere, then he’d been pinned by magic, and they’d used something to force him to drink.

  Roland was smart enough not to try that again. And it was potions, so tucking the pill in his cheek and spitting it out later was out. He hadn’t figured out a way around that, so far, especially as weak as he was, and as unpredictable as his magic seemed to be. Not that he’d been permitted to sort that out either. He’d even been told he couldn’t try the most basic magical exercises he’d been taught as a child.

  He realised suddenly that she was still standing there, patiently. Finally, grudgingly, he said, careful not to move his head more than he had to. “Less light, please.”

  She pulled the curtains closed, all the way, not leaving the narrow strip that was almost worse than having them fully open. “They are quite thick. Perhaps I could arrange a lighter layer, to filter, without being so much? It is a bright day out today, after all that rain.”

  Merlin’s beard, she seemed like a chatterer, if that was how she started. He hated that. He said nothing, watching as she went to close the door fully, then set down her bag beside the easy chair that faced his bed. He wondered what she had in there. Knitting, probably, or something to be darned. She seemed the sort.

  He got a better look at her now. She was nondescript, that was the best way to put it. Mid-thirties, maybe early forties, it was hard to tell in the dimmer light.

  She had dark hair, pulled back into the tight knot at the back of her head that he always thought looked rather painful. Any hint of a loose strand was shellacked back with whatever magic women used for that sort of thing. A starched nurse’s cap covered most of her hair except the bun and a line at the forehead.

  She seemed sturdy, not the slender willowy sort of woman more common in his social circles, certainly not a fashionable sort of body. Not that it was easy to tell through the layers of uniform that all of them wore like armour. And she moved with a tight precision and efficiency of movement that seemed as regimented as his own comrades in the army.

  She looked him up and down, like she was weighing him up. Then she went to the pitcher and glasses on the table at the far end of the room, filled one of them, and brought it back for him. “Water?”

  Roland blinked at her. He was thirsty, but how was she to know? He nodded, very slightly, and took the glass. His hands weren’t shaking too badly today, but he held the glass with both hands, just to be sure. Then he reached to set it down, and she let him. Other people would have taken it, immediately, as if a shattered glass were the worst thing that could happen. He couldn’t tell if she didn’t know or if she didn’t care, and it gave him no hint of what to do.

  “I am Therapeutes Morris. Nurse Morris, if you prefer.”

  He wet his lips. “Roland Gospatrick. Major Gospatrick.” Well, he had been, and they wouldn’t take his rank from him, even if he were invalided out now.

  She nodded again, briskly. “Now. My previous work has largely been with children, or at least young people. You are neither a schoolboy, nor recovering from a childhood illness. I haven’t served in the Temple here since my apprenticeship, so I’ll be picking up a lot as we go.” There was a pause, as if she were trying to decide how to phrase something. “The healers have charge of your care, but if there is something that is bothering you, please tell me, if you would. I can see if I can ease it, at least.”

  Curious phrasing. And at least she didn’t seem like she wanted to be a martinet for the sake of it. He didn’t respond, and she stood, looking at him for a long moment. “If I may, I would like to take your vitals. Get a sense of things.”

  It seemed harmless enough, not that he could stop her. Though she at least asked his permission rather than just grabbing for his wrist. He almost nodded, instead shifting his hand so she could reach the pulse there. She stood, in the universal posture he had come to know and loathe, of having someone obliged to touch him, and someone he was obliged to allow.

  Pulse, then she counted his breaths, and he had to keep himself from the instinctive desire to hold his breath and mess up her count. Then she went to the table and brought back a thermometer, popping it in his mouth. She stood back, glancing at her fob watch, then, when she removed it from his mouth, asked briskly, “Pain? And how does your magic feel?”

  The first was something they asked occasionally, but not, he thought, often enough. That didn’t mean he wanted to tell her. He couldn’t obscure the other signs, but he could lie about the pain. And his magic.

  He didn’t say anything. She let the silence be, then nodded once, as if not answering her were the answer she expected. She turned, and went to the back table, doing something to clean the thermometer before writing down half a dozen figures in a little notebook she’d produced from nowhere. When he still didn’t answer, she settled down in the chair by his bed, and said, “I am glad to read to you, if you prefer.”

  Roland closed his eyes, and let himself sink back against the pillows, trying to find an angle that made his head pound less. He counted ticks of the clock for half a minute, then heard her take something out of her bag. A few moments later, he could hear the softest clickety-tap of knitting needles.

  He must have dozed for a time, because the next thing he knew was a hand resting on his, very lightly. “Major Gospatrick? Your luncheon will be delivered in a few minutes.” He could faintly hear the rattle of the trolley in the hallway outside, muffled by thick walls, but she had silently cracked the door open just a hair. “May I open the blinds? Sister Almeda will ask about it, I’m sure.”

  Roland tried to parse that, then waved a hand, weakly. She took it as permission, and went to draw the curtains open, closing the window to a narrow gap, just enough to keep fresh air movin
g. The sun had moved enough that it fell at about his knees, rather than too near his face, at least. He watched her movements, squinting against the light. She turned back, and asked, “May I help you sit up?”

  “I - I can.” His voice cracked, and he coughed, but then he began to work his way around to sitting up, squashing the pillow behind him into place.

  Instead of fussing at him, she turned to go and refill his water glass, bringing it back over to him when it was full. He had managed to get himself settled, and he felt it wasn’t too poor a showing. She let him drink, again, not demanding she take the glass back, but he gestured at her with it, wordlessly, when he’d drunk about half of it.

  He could hear the orderly at the next door, now, and Nurse Morris straightened, sitting down in the chair, or rather perching. When the orderly opened the door, there was a nod at her. “Table in the corner, nurse, if you would.” It was polite enough, if in a rough accent. Harry tended to be less brusque than a number of them.

  She brought over the bed table, setting it across his lap with quick practised gestures that made it clear she had done that particular task thousands of times. Not just someone who had volunteered because of the War. No, she’d said she’d served in the Temple some years ago.

  His brain went flying off, wondering what she’d done since, and then whether he cared or not. By the time he’d managed to bring his focus back, there was a bowl of soup, and a meat pie, or rather a slice of one. It was cut up so he didn’t have to manoeuvre through a thick and unyielding crust. He was never sure whether to feel insulted that they had, or grateful that he didn’t need to fumble through doing it himself.

  His nurse waited until he’d started, and then asked the orderly, “A word?”