her into the building, she felt terrifyingly light in his arms, as if her bones were hollow like a bird’s. Her head rested on his shoulder, rolling slightly as he walked. He wanted to pour his own strength into her, fill her veins with his blood. He wanted to beg, bribe, threaten, hurt someone.
The interior of the building had recently been renovated, with a well-ventilated and brightly lit entrance. They went through a set of self-closing doors to a large block of rooms identified with neatly lettered signs, including an infirmary, a dispensary, administrative offices, consulting and examination rooms, and an operating room at the end of a long corridor.
Gabriel had already been aware that Winterborne employed two full-time physicians for the benefit of the hundreds of men and women who worked for him. However, the best doctors usually attended upper-class patients, whereas the middle and working class had to make do with practitioners of lesser talent. Gabriel had vaguely envisioned a set of shabby offices and a mediocre surgery, occupied by a pair of indifferent physicians. He should have known that Winterborne would have spared no expense in building an advanced medical facility.
They were met in the surgery lobby by a middle-aged physician with a shock of white hair, a broad brow, penetrating eyes, and a handsomely craggy face. He looked exactly how a surgeon should look, capable and dignified, with decades’ worth of knowledge earned by vast experience.
“St. Vincent,” Winterborne said, “this is Doctor Havelock.”
A slender brown-haired nurse strode briskly into the lobby area, waving away Winterborne’s attempt at introductions. She was dressed in a divided skirt and wore the same kind of white linen surgeon’s gown and cap as Havelock. Her face was young and clean-scrubbed, her green eyes sharp and assessing.
“My lord,” she said to Gabriel without preamble, “please bring Lady St. Vincent this way.”
He followed her into an examination room, which was brilliantly lit with surgical lamps and reflectors. It was also immaculately clean, the walls lined with glass plates, the floor paved with glazed tiles and scored with gutters to divert liquid. Chemicals scented the air: carbolic acid, distilled alcohol, and a hint of benzene. Gabriel’s gaze swept across an assortment of metal vessels and apparatus for steam sterilizing, tables bearing washbasins and trays of instruments, and a stoneware sink.
“My wife is in pain,” he said curtly, glancing over his shoulder and wondering why the doctor hadn’t accompanied them.
“I’ve already prepared a hypodermic of morphine,” the nurse replied. “Has she eaten during the past four hours?”
“No.”
“Excellent. Lay her gently on the table, please.”
Her voice was clear and decisive. It grated a bit, her authoritative manner, the surgeon’s cap, the way she seemed to be posturing as a doctor.
Although Pandora had compressed her lips tightly, a whimper broke from her as Gabriel settled her onto the leather table. It had been constructed with moveable framework, and was positioned to elevate the upper body slightly. The nurse whisked away the coat draped over Pandora’s blood-soaked white lace bodice and covered her with a flannel blanket.
“Oh, hello,” Pandora said faintly, drawing in quick, reedy breaths and looking up at the woman with dull, pain-hazed eyes.
Smiling briefly, the nurse took up Pandora’s wrist and checked her pulse. “When I invited you to tour the new surgery,” she murmured, “I didn’t necessarily mean as a patient.”
Pandora’s dry lips quirked as the woman noted the dilation of her eyes. “You’ll have to patch me up,” she said.
“I certainly will.”
“You know each other?” Gabriel asked, puzzled.
“Indeed, my lord. I’m a friend of the family.” The nurse picked up a contraption with an earplate, a flexible silk-covered tube, and a trumpet-shaped wooden piece. Lifting one end to her ear, she applied the other end to various places on Pandora’s chest and listened intently.
Increasingly perturbed, Gabriel glanced at the door, wondering where Dr. Havelock was.
The nurse reached for a swab of cotton, dampened it with solution from a small bottle, and cleaned a patch of skin on Pandora’s left arm. Turning to a tray of instruments, she picked up a glass syringe fitted with a hollow needle. She tilted the needle upward and depressed the piston to drive the air out of the chamber.
“Have you had an injection before?” she asked Pandora gently.
“No.” Pandora’s free hand crept toward Gabriel, and he engulfed her cold fingers in his.
“You’ll feel a sting,” the nurse said, “but it will be brief. Then you’ll feel a wave of warmth, and all the pain will vanish.”
As she searched