Cleansing the area and dabbing it with iodine, he placed fresh gauze over the wound and bandaged it. “A few more days and you should be able to leave the wrap off. It’s important for wounds to have fresh air, otherwise they don’t heal properly.” He lowered her foot to the floor.
She gracefully smoothed her skirts back into place. “How long before it is healed?”
“You’ll have a scar there for the rest of your life, but I should say by the end of next week you’ll be able to waltz up and down the stairs without much issue.”
“That long?”
“It’s not really that long. Unless you have some place to be.”
“I— No.”
“Chay.” Mrs. Varjensky announced, breaking the disgruntled spell. She traded in her ladle and held up a cracked teapot.
Shaking her head, Svetlana replied before translating to Wynn. “Tea, but we won’t inconvenience you any longer. Thank you for coming.”
He had been as pleasant as possible thinking her standoffishness was a cultural difference he’d yet to navigate, but mayhap her constant dismissal had more to do with him and not interpersonal courtesies.
“Is it me or visitors in general you try to kick out at the earliest opportunity?”
Her eyes widened a fraction. A sliver enough for him to see embarrassment. “You misunderstand.”
It summed up the whole of their short interactions so far, but he was more than willing to get them on the right foot. Even for one simple conversation.
“Chay.” Mrs. Varjensky rattled an empty tin and showed him the remnants of dried leaves at the bottom. She shoved the tin into Wynn’s hands before pushing him and Svetlana out of her chamber. He caught the twinkle in the old woman’s eyes before she closed the blanket partition on their protests. Well, Svetlana’s protests. He was doing no such thing; he was grateful to have a bit more time with her.
“Where are you going?” Her Serenity the Princess Ana stood alone in the same spot as before clutching a velvet bag to her chest. She eyed Wynn with suspicion.
“To the garden. Mrs. Varjensky wishes tea,” Svetlana said.
Placated but not pleased, Ana nodded. “Tarry not. This southern sun will melt your complexion.”
“Yes, Mama.”
The blanket behind Ana pulled back to reveal a man with dated side chops and a pinched-face woman who stared at the bag in Ana’s hands. They gestured her into the chamber and pulled taut the blanket.
“Voleurs,” Svetlana hissed.
Not one for languages outside of the medical Latin and the passing French he’d acquired since being in country, Wynn knew that word from traveling the overcrowded and starving streets of Paris. Thieves.
On edge, he stepped closer to her. “Is there something else I can be of assistance with?”
“Most of the émigrés want to find peace while others seek only advantage. Come.”
Outside, a sunny haze enveloped the walled courtyard, blurring the harsh lines of stone and slate roof and filling the elm trees with golden light. They turned away from the boiling pots of laundry and soup and walked to the small garden in the far back corner hidden behind a crumbling wall. Much of the dirt patch was overgrown with tangled vines and leaves, but several rows appeared to be somewhat maintained with individual plants poking through the earth.
“The Father Superior gave us permission to use what we needed. He doubted anything of use still grew here, but Mrs. Varjensky has coaxed a few herbs from hiding in their forgotten state.” Svetlana ran a hand across her puckered brow. “We picked much of the comfrey yesterday. I do not understand how we ran out.”
“Mayhap she boiled a secret batch and drank it all while you slept. Ladies and their tea.”
Svetlana took the few steps forward while heavily favoring her good leg. Her lips pursed into a thin line with the effort. Wynn took her hand and looped it under his arm, forcing her to lean against him as he led her to a crooked bench perched under a tree.
“Here, let me get it. You rest.”
“Thank you.” Smoothing her cotton skirt, she flexed and straightened her foot as a dancer might to ascertain pliability. If she was a dancer, that would explain her movements. Like water they were. “Do you know where the plant is?”
Wynn stood in the middle of the overgrown garden and did his best to tell the plants apart. He could discern the flexor carpi radialis, flexor carpi ulnaris, and palmaris longus with his eyes closed, yet the growing green stalks defied him. “Not a clue.”
“I thought doctors knew all their medicines.”
“From a textbook, certainly. Or ground up in tubes from the lab. It’s another beast all together when foraging in the wild.”
Svetlana shifted on the bench and pointed to the middle of the plot. “It is the long leaf pointed at the end. There are dead purple flowers beneath it. Do you see? Mrs. Varjensky was adamant it is this and not the plant next to it that she claimed to produce blood from the ear.”
Wynn grimaced. Not a prognosis he wished to get involved with. “Stay away from that one.” Picking his way to the center, he squatted next to the desirable plant and eyed the indicated fallen purple flowers. “Do you know those people your mother was speaking with?”
“Not in particular.”
“Are they causing problems for your family?”
“It is of no consequence. We will not be here for long.”
Two reactions pinned him simultaneously. The first, a physician’s concern. “I hope you’re not thinking of traveling anytime soon. Not with your injury.” The other, something far more human responding to the guarded measures of her tone. “You’re safe here.”
“There is no place safe. Not anymore.” She stiffened and looked away. Wynn had the feeling she was looking far beyond the back wall. To a place only seen in memory.
He picked a handful of comfrey sprigs as he weighed his words. “It’s true the war makes such reliability obsolete, but the Germans are far from here. They’ll never breach Paris.”
“Who are you to guarantee such a thing?”
“I’m offering you a chance to hope. You don’t seem to have much of it lately.”
She looked at him fully for the first time, unashamedly in her direct perusal. He returned the directness. Hair of palest blond it was nearly white; unblemished skin kept from a lifetime of sun; and eyes the color of a wintry sea. So pale blue in the center one might lose himself in the vastness until drifting to the rim of arctic blue around the outside. Beautiful was not enough. Words such as elegant and exquisite were used to describe women like her, and while he felt himself affected by such attributes, it was not what held his attention.
Intelligence was not a calling card for most women he knew as society highly disapproved of such liberal notions. Her Serenity the Princess Svetlana—and all those other names he couldn’t remember—displayed hers without reserve. She didn’t defer or feign false modesty. She held herself with quiet pride, and nothing could kindle his admiration more.
“I had hope once.” Her soft admission was snatched on a breeze of sorrow. “Such notions belong to ruins of the past.”