My stomach twists, and I feel flushed and sick at the thought of my corpse being cut up for research. “Will”—my voice comes out a croak—“will I go mad?”
Zara’s wild rocking stills so suddenly that her chair crashes back into the cement wall. “I don’t know. You’ll be better off than most, because you’ll know what the visions are. They can be disorienting. Cause headaches and confusion. The others tried to prevent bad things from happening, and that put them in danger. The prophecies always come to pass.”
We stare at each other in dismayed silence. I know Zara thinks she’s telling me the truth, but I refuse to believe it.
“Zara?” The nurse with the birthmark knocks on the door and leans in. I look up, hoping she hasn’t overheard anything she oughtn’t, but she only looks exasperated. “You mustn’t waste the young Sister’s time telling your stories. She’s needed down in the infirmary.”
“I was just telling her about the Minotaur,” Zara says, her voice dreamy again. “All the maidens lost in the labyrinth. They needed a champion to save them.”
“She’ll tell you those scandalous Greek stories all day if you let her. She was a governess once,” the nurse says, clucking disapprovingly. She holds her knitting against her white apron, and now I can make out a child’s blue stocking. For a grandson, perhaps? “Say good-bye now, Zara.”
Zara gives me a wide, eerie smile. She’s missing several teeth. “Good-bye, Sister Catherine. Cave quid dicis, quando, et cui.”
“There’ll be none of that, now. You’ll speak proper English like the rest of us, Zara, or you’ll get no supper,” the nurse scolds. She turns to me. “What did she say?”
“I’ve no idea,” I lie.
Thanks to Father’s insistence that we all be educated in Latin, I’m familiar with the phrase.
Beware of what you say, when, and to whom.
Chapter 6
THE HARWOOD INFIRMARY IS A HELLISH place. An oppressive wave of heat greets me, like opening an oven door. The fireplace burns hot at one end, and the room feels small and stifling. The heavy curtains are pulled shut; candles throw monstrous shadows onto the walls. A dozen patients doze and cry and cough on their narrow metal beds, and the air smells coppery, like blood.
In the corner, a girl cries out for her mother in her sleep. Another girl is coughing—horrible hacking noises that rack her thin body. Addie sits beside a skeletal old woman who sucks in each harsh, rasping breath as though it might be her last. Addie looks so young next to her, head bowed in prayer, her smooth brown hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. As I watch, she touches the woman’s hand and the patient slips into a peaceful slumber.
I hesitate in the doorway, perspiration gathering at my spine. I don’t want to go in. It reminds me too much of my mother’s sickroom, of death and dying. Down the hall, two nurses chat and laugh, having abandoned their posts to the Sisters’ capable hands.
Sister Sophia hurries forward. “There’s a patient here who’s beyond my skill. Would you sit with her for a minute and see if you can help?”
Sophia leads me toward a woman tossing and moaning on her bed. Purple shadows blossom beneath her eyes. As she clutches her swollen stomach, I have a sudden dreadful suspicion.
“Please,” she begs, with tear-filled blue eyes, “please bring me my baby. I just want to see her. Just once, before you send her away.”
I look to Sister Sophia, who gives the slightest shake of her head, confirming my guess. The baby is dead.
“She was crying and then she—stopped, and now they won’t let me see her. Where is she?”
Sister Sophia gives me a little push in the woman’s direction. I want to run away. What help can I be, in the face of such immense grief?
“Sister, please,” the woman whispers, her bloodless lips parched and dry. I look back at Sister Sophia before I realize she’s talking to me. I pour a glass of cloudy water from the pitcher on her nightstand and hold it to her mouth.
The woman takes a sip, then turns her head away. “I want my baby,” she says, her voice fierce. She has pale hair that tumbles down over both shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” I say, wondering what else this woman has suffered, why she is in this place. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
It is the wrong thing to say.
“No.” Her eyes go wild, and she thrashes toward the side of the bed, determined to rise and find her child. “No! You’re lying. I heard her cry.”
I reach out and grab her thin wrist, tugging her back to her pillow before she can pitch herself onto the floor. “Stop. You’re not well, ma’am. You’ll hurt yourself.”
My words are calm, but inside I’m reeling with horror. This woman is dreadfully sick. I could feel it the moment I touched her. It’s a miracle that she and the baby aren’t both dead.
“What do I care?” She snatches her arm away. “I’d rather die than live the rest of my life in this hell. At least I’d be with her. They said she was a girl. My only daughter!”
I seize on this new bit of information. “You have sons?”
She nods, wiping tears away with the backs of her hands. “Two of them.”
“Then you must take care of yourself. They need their mother.”
More tears leak from her eyes. “I’ll never see them again. They’ll grow up hating me for leaving them,” she whimpers.
“No. You’re their mother. They’ll understand, when they’re older.” I wish I could promise her that she will leave this place, that she’ll see her children again. But why would she believe me, dressed in the garb of the Sisters? And dare I promise such a thing?
“What do you know of it? Married to the Lord,” she scoffs. “You’ll never be a mother.”
Oh. I’d like to be a mother, someday.
I think of this woman’s sons. I picture them as two towheaded little boys, lips wobbling as they hear of their mother’s death. That is a grief I do know. I reach out and circle her wrist with my hand, and I wish she could go home to her little boys so they need not know how it feels to lose her. I wish that she could be healthy enough to fight, when the time comes.
The spell pours through me. It eviscerates me, turning my body inside out, twisting my stomach.
Oh, it hurts. It hurts. This is much worse than healing Mei.
I slump over the woman’s bed, head spinning, but I try to keep the image of those two boys in my mind. I don’t let go of her wrist. I can do this. I have to do this, for them.
“Cate.” Sister Sophia’s hand is on my shoulder, pulling me back, breaking my grip.
I look at the patient through bleary eyes. My head is pounding. She doesn’t look any different, only puzzled at my almost swooning on top of her. Did the spell work? I can’t tell without touching her again, and if I touch her again, I will faint.
Sister Sophia apologizes to the woman—something about how new I am to nursing and how I’m overcome at her sad loss—and then she’s wrapping her arm around me, shepherding me out of the room and down the hall and out into the snow. I throw up on the grass beside the carriageway. She bundles me into the carriage and instructs me to lie down on the leather seat. Only then is it safe to ask the question pressing on me: