"Do the bean-sidhe have feathers?" I asked.
Simon moved to step around the body and caught his boot on the sheets of wood leaning against the wall. They tipped and fell onto the floor, narrowly missing the body. We both saw the words scrawled on the other side of the wood sheet in black paint at the same time.
Beware the birds.
Chapter Five
After we finished in the dead man's apartment, Simon mumbled something about a meeting and hurried off, leaving me outside with a host of worries circling my head. The severe glance he gave me before turning the corner left me feeling that the Warden didn't entirely trust me. Flying out of an airship in a cauldron tended to do that.
I'd promised to consider the circumstances of Albert's death further, though I gathered Simon expected me to cast a spell and reveal the murderer. Each time I’d brought up the wisdom of Descartes or Aristotle, he’d made a face as if someone had flicked a booger into his porridge.
I had resolved to return to my printer shop and take inventory to determine the next steps of my fledgling business when I remembered that a certain lady named Rowan Blade had a shop not far from my location. While I didn't imagine that she was the murderer, between the bone fetishes and the belief in prophecy, there was something supernatural about her that made me want to visit her.
Before I took a step away, I felt an icy finger tracing down the center of my back. Slowly, I wheeled until I saw a bird perched on the apex of the roof. It was the largest raven I'd ever seen. Its feathers glistened with oily magnificence. Its onyx eyes regarded me with alien indifference.
Just as I spied a chip of cobblestone to throw at the bird, a great rattling burst upon the street. A country wagon pulled by two broad-chested workhorses flew at me, the iron wrapped wheels sounding the frenzied drum. The farmer at the reins wore a wide sun hat and soiled work clothes, and kept glancing back into the wagon.
I followed in a hurry, as the farmer's path matched my own. I wasn't halfway down the street before I remembered the raven, only to find it had flown from its perch.
When I turned the corner, I found a long line of poor folk standing outside a shop. Even before I read the words on the sign, the crimson on pale coloring indicated the owner.
The Bone House. It was a simple, yet subtly elegant sign. On either side was the design of a bone-saw crossed with a steaming vial.
It was worse than I’d imagined. Rowan Blade had to be a charlatan. Her uniform of fetishes, pale skin, and bright red lips were an indication that she was something more than a doctor.
I marched past the people waiting for Rowan to dispense her pseudo old country remedies, right when the dirty farmer appeared from inside with the shop's namesake behind him.
Rowan wasn't dressed in the stylish clothes from the carriage, but in a doctor's white linen blouse and apron over a tan skirt. The pale apron was splattered with blood and other unwholesome stains.
"Big Joe, my plow mule, kicked Gentry in the chest," said the farmer, his voice on the edge of breaking.
Rowan moved to the wagon, her brown-gold eyes momentarily acknowledging me, before she climbed over the back. Gentry, the farmer's son, was lying in the back of the wagon, blood on his lips, wheezing. He looked frightened, his eyes like saucers.
Rowan snapped her fingers at me. "Katerina, fetch Harvest for me. He's right inside tending to a thorn in a foot. And bring the stretcher." When I hesitated, she said, "Quickly, or this man's son will die."
The farmer's face paled as I ran inside. The shop was filled with families crouched along the walls, coughing and wiping running noses on dirty sleeves. I didn't see her hulking driver, so I moved past the curtain into the next room.
Harvest looked up when I barged in, his black eyes flashing with unexpected anger for the briefest of moments, then his brow softened. He was attending to a boy with the end of a locus thorn sticking from his tattered shoe, who could have been one of the kids chasing the cat earlier.
"Rowan says to come quick and bring the stretcher," I said.
The big man patted the boy's foot, grabbed the stretcher leaning against the wall, and ducked through the doorway. I wanted to linger in the room. It was filled with strange implements that reminded me of either Djata's distillery or a torture room, depending on the device I lay my gaze upon.
Outside, Rowan commanded me to grab the wooden handles of the stretcher while she took the other side. Harvest gently scooped the farmer's son out of the wagon and laid him on the canvas. We hurried into the shop and set the boy on a slab across from the patient with a thorn in his foot.
A pale knife appeared in Rowan's hand, the same one that had threatened me in the carriage. She sliced the boy's shirt open, revealing a chest partially caved in, the skin an angry red blotched with bruises. His eyes were rolled back into his head and it appeared he'd stopped breathing.
"Grab the exhaler," Rowan ordered, pointing to a wall filled with implements.
The overwhelming display kept me searching. I put my hand on a device made of polished steel and hardwood, shaped into a claw.
"The one that looks like a bellows with a tube," said Rowan.
I brought the item to the patient. Rowan was gently probing the boy's caved chest.
"Put the tube in his mouth. Make sure you get past his teeth, over his tongue, and against his throat," she said.
"But I'm not—"
"No time," she said.
I wanted to argue and point out that Harvest could perform the necessary task, except the big man had returned to the boy with the locus thorn in his foot.
The end of the tube was a cone made of brass. Using my fingers, I wedged the boy's mouth open and pushed the cone past his teeth. When it wouldn't go past his tongue, I had to root my finger around and hold down the troublesome appendage until the device was against his throat.
"Attach the straps around his head so it doesn't come loose," said Rowan.
I fumbled for the leather straps. The boy's face was turning a shade of purple. He was no longer getting air. After I tied it at the back of his head, Rowan had me pumping the bellows.
"Soft and deliberate," she told me when I started too fast.
Rowan crouched at the side of the slab, watching his chest as I brought the two sides of the bellows together, squeezing the accordion and forcing air into his lungs. I focused on making sure I didn't go too fast to notice if it was having an effect.
"Again," she said.
I pumped air into his lungs three more times before I dared to look down His chest was slightly more inflated. Instead of a pillow with a head-shaped depression, his chest now had a flat spot on it.
"Now put your mouth on that tube that extends from the side," explained Rowan, "and make sure you squeeze the bottom so the leather valve lets your air in."
"What am I doing?" I asked.
"Breathing for him," she said. "He needs your air to live. Take a deep breath and push it through the tube."
I did as she said, grabbing the tube like a snake and putting my mouth to the end. It smelled like vinegar. I blew as hard and long as I could. She had me repeat blowing into the tube, until I was dizzy and had to lean against the slab for support.
The pattern of squeezing the bellows and blowing into the tube repeated for several cycles, the boy's chest slowly expanding to its original shape. When I thought I would pass out, Rowan had me stop and remove the brass cone.
The boy's face had taken a healthier pink and he seemed to be breathing on his own, albeit shallowly. Rowan's concerned expression, however, told me the boy was not out of danger. She wandered to an alchemical table, decanted some milky liquid into a beaker, crushed some dry leaves into a mortar, and mixed them together.
Rowan dipped her finger into the liquid and dripped it into the boy's mouth. After she saw the boy swallow, she put her sleeve to her forehead and wiped, an expression of exhaustion on her face.
"Help me move him to this other table," she said. "He should heal, though I'll wan
t to watch him."
"That device is quite remarkable," I said, as I grabbed one end of the board he lay on.
"I've pulled men back from beyond the grave with it," said Rowan, the edges of a proud smile on her exhausted lips.
We moved him, and then while I stayed and watched him, Rowan went outside to inform the father of his son's health. While she was out, I watched Harvest hand an older woman with a stooped back and wispy gray hair a small leather bag. She gave him a toothless smile, patted him on the arm, and left through the curtain.
Rowan returned with a worker from one of the coal factories. His eyes were bright against his blackened face. He complained of headaches and fainting spells.
I was prepared to sneak out of the room when Rowan spoke. "Katerina, can you mix a poultice for me?"
My reply evaporated when I saw the man's sad eyes. "Yes, Madam."
As she placed her ear against the man's chest, she gave me instructions, which weren't hard to follow. I'd spent many years apprenticed to Ben Franklin and knew my way around beakers and mortars, though I wasn't entirely sure what herbs and liquids I was mixing. The viscous brown jelly I spooned out of a jar smelled like rotten butter. The green, shredded herb I sprinkled into the mixture gave off a sage aroma, but the coloring of the leaf wasn't the same.
Rowan gave the coal factory worker a small jar filled with the mixture and instructed him to rub it on his chest each night for one week. She also told him to find a new job, suggesting that the poultice would only reduce his symptoms while he continued to inhale the coal dust.
Before I could disentangle myself from Rowan's operation, another patient entered and I found myself the woman's assistant. This went on for hours: men, women, children, and families came into her shop for medicine, medical advice, or a fresh binding on an open wound. Not once did I see her collect monies for her efforts.
Later in the evening, after the sun had set and we worked by gas lamps, was when the incident happened. Only a few patients remained—the line had reduced to the waiting room inside the shop. The young girl who'd passed me on the way to the dead man's apartment was one of the last patients. She and her mother were easy to remember because they wore clean linen dresses, and the mother wore a spot of rouge and pearl chip earrings.
The girl had her eyes clamped in quiet agony when her mother led her in, cradling the injured arm. The mother's bitter expression hid a deeper turmoil. Her gaze bounced around the room.
I leaned against the slab with the farmer's sleeping son. He snored lightly, which Rowan had said was a good sign.
Rowan crouched on her heels. Her hair, which had been fashionably coifed in the carriage, looked like black cotton fallen out of a sack. The band of ribbon she'd tied her hair back with had been lost some time ago.
"Little Miss," said Rowan softly, with that pleasant trill ending each word, "is something wrong with your arm?"
The girl rocked against her mother, whose sharp words cut through the room like broken glass. "Madam Doctor, I am greatly in your debt, but why did it take so long? My darling Isabel's arm may be broken, and I don't want it to heal wrong and ruin her chances for a good husband. With a war coming, the prospects for proper husbands will diminish."
The practiced smile of a person used to hearing such complaints rose to Rowan's lips, though her steely gaze indicated she felt otherwise.
"I am your humble servant, Madam, and I assure you I dealt with each patient in the proper order," said Rowan.
The little girl, Isabel, opened her eyes briefly. Pain wracked those pale blue eyes.
"I offered your man-servant coin that we might be seen sooner"—the mother’s voice rose—"and we were ignored."
"I do not see paying customers today," said Rowan, standing and crossing her arms. "While your daughter's injury is painful, she was in no danger, unlike some of my other patients."
The mother's face turned hideous, as if each cheek and lip was pulled backwards by a hidden string. "My precious Isabel deserves better than that." She glanced around the room as if she was seeing it for the first time. "This place is too filthy for the likes of my daughter. I'll be taking her to a proper doctor."
The mother, in her haste to leave, pulled on Isabel's injured arm. A deathly wail erupted from the girl's lips. Even from across the room, I could see the bone had shifted.
"See what you've done," said the mother to Rowan, who looked heartbroken.
"Wait, her arm," said Rowan.
The girl's mother was hearing none of it and tried to move through the exit. Rowan grabbed the mother's dress, keeping her trapped. The woman started shrieking, her voice drowning out her daughter's cries.
"Off my person! Keep your filthy foreign hands off me!"
Between the exhaustion of the day and the piercing screams, the headache that'd been brewing came on like a steam train. It felt like I was hungover and being forced to stare directly into the sun, except the light was coming from inside my head.
The drama between Rowan and the girl's mother only got worse when she tried to drag her daughter from the room, further separating the two bones. Each shriek was a knife blow to my ears.
The pressure was intolerable. A bright light was inside my head, straining to get out. I wasn’t sure how I made it across the room without stumbling, because I could barely see.
The mother was pulling on the girl's arm, whipping it around like a hinged door. Tears stained Isabel's face and crimson blotches burst onto her cheeks. Her eyes screamed: Help me!
I didn’t remember placing my hands on the girl's arm, right at the juncture of the break. I had no idea why I would do such a thing. My sane mind knew that it would only hurt the girl further.
The light, the burning, exuberant light that was trapped in my head, sped through my body as if it were a conduit, until it came out my hands into the girl's arm. For a moment, I could see through my hands and her arms as if they were shadows on a gauzy sheet.
With the pressure released, I slumped backwards and fell against an empty slab, barely keeping myself upright. I was faintly aware the girl's screaming had ceased, though the mother was still shouting at Rowan, who had released the woman's dress.
"Good day to you," said the mother as she left, pulling her daughter through the curtain. The girl's wide eyes left me looking at my hands as if they were someone else's.
Rowan either had not seen me mend the girl's arm, or was ignoring that it'd happened. She gave me a weary smile.
"My hearty thanks for your help today. I wouldn't have been able to treat this many patients without your support," said Rowan, her brown-gold eyes etched with thoughts.
She dug into a hidden pocket and pulled out a fold of legal tender and pressed it into my hand. I tried to resist, but my limbs felt like noodles.
"I can't take that," I said. "You didn't get paid for your work."
A secret smile came easily to her lips. "I collect generous payments from my wealthy customers so I can treat the poor ones. You've earned your dues today. Go home and rest. You're welcome to be my assistant any time. There's never a shortage of work."
I told her I would consider a return and stumbled out of the Bone House, regretting that I'd worn my stylish clothes. They were filthy with the spackle of humanity.
Night had brought a wicked wind from the north, slicing through the streets and forcing me to hug my arms across my chest. Though I was cold, it also refreshed me, clearing my head from the fog of the day's events. As I listened to distant dogs barking and the low whine of an airship passing overhead, I heard the sound of a crossbow bolt clicking into place.
Chapter Six
The alleyway that I passed held its darkness jealously. My steam carriage was another two streets away. A shape moved to the edge of the light, and I threw myself forward as the bolt flew overhead.
Fear set my legs to pumping as I ran from that spot. A hurried glance over my shoulder revealed two cloaked figures jerkily following. Something about them seemed false, as they ambled
after me like broken men.
I heard the sound of horses on another street. My gut told me these were not simple thieves, so I didn't try to call for help.
I reached the steam carriage well before my would-be assassins, a lather of sweat added to my retinue of filth. The brass boiler was stone cold, leaving me with a long wait before I could flee in my vehicle. I sparked the fire and set the levers to build steam.
After loading the repeating pistol and fastening the rapier to my side, I took position behind the carriage. I'd lost sight of my pursuers when I turned the corner. The infrequent gas lamps left me between two patches of darkness. I hadn't expected to be in this part of the city until nightfall.
While I waited, scanning the street in a searching pattern, I considered the motives of these men. I doubted they had thievery in mind, as they had fired without saying a word. Bandits or rapists wouldn't use a city street for their ambush point, preferring to lay in wait in the countryside. Which left the possibility that Emperor Paul's assassins had finally reached Philadelphia.
Only the bird caw saved me, though I never saw the creature that made the noise. I turned, expecting the great raven winging overhead, and I saw the two man-like shapes in hooded cloaks, shambling forward like stringless marionettes. They'd flanked me somehow and closed in from two dozen paces.
As I scrambled around the carriage, I caught flashes of wires and rods beneath the cloaks of my pursuers. When a trailing assassin stopped to fix his arm, the fabric around his chest sagged open, revealing a birdcage for a chest.
My heel caught a cobblestone, sending me hard onto my rear. Elbow impacted stone, and bright shards of pain shot through my arm. As the assassins passed through a curtain of gas light, I saw they were made of nothing more than discarded junk hastily assembled. This revelation did not hinder my escape, however, as my experience with Koschei taught me to not doubt the impossible.
Leaning around the carriage, I fired my pistol, the barrel spitting a flash. The first assassin staggered from the impact, but kept coming. It reloaded the crossbow as it marched like a broken-down clockwork.
Birds of Prophecy (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 3) Page 4
