“You should have seen her tonight. Dressed like a swan in pearls and feathers. I’ve never heard such rapturous applause.” Mama shimmied out of her gown and placed it in the trunk with all the others. “She has an introduction to Monsieur Diaghilev of the Ballets Russes. Think of the prestige of performing on a Parisian stage.”
Svetlana slipped her aching feet out of her shoes and rubbed the dull ache in her shin. She tried forgetting about the earlier spat for Marina’s sake, but Mama gave a valiant effort for resurrecting it.
“Your tune about my dancing is oddly different than a few hours ago.”
“Think of those attending Ballets Russes. Nobility, gentlemen and ladies. Diamonds and evening gloves. One step closer to the world in which we belong.”
“I’m sure it will be wonderful, Mama.” Marina met Svetlana’s eye. She had learned the patience of placating their mother long before Svetlana could even attempt it. “Only because Svetka’s grace will outshine them all.” She coughed and fell back on her pillow.
“That doesn’t sound good.” Svetlana knelt beside her and touched a hand to her sister’s brow. “You’re warm.”
“No, it’s cold in here. The nights are turning cooler, and this floor is like an ice block come morning.”
Taking the blanket from her own pallet and a fur-lined cloak of Sheremetev’s offering, Svetlana stuffed it under her sister. It wasn’t much, but it might muffle out some of the chill. “Try to sleep. In the morning we’ll help Mrs. Varjenksy make a large batch of hot soup.”
“You’re a terrible cook.”
“I can stir, can’t I?”
“Only when you remember to and half the potatoes are already stuck to the bottom of the pot.”
Svetlana pulled the thin blanket up to Marina’s chin, cutting off further remarks on her lack of culinary skills. “Good night.”
A few hours later, when the sun was no more than a lingering consideration on the gray horizon, Svetlana awoke to a violent shuddering. She rolled over to find Marina shaking next to her. Drenched in sweat, her entire body convulsed hard enough to rattle her teeth.
“Marina! Wake up.” Svetlana shook her sister. A shocking heat scorched through her nightdress. “Wake up.”
Marina’s eyes barely fluttered as a wheeze escaped her throat.
“Mama!” Svetlana flung the wet blanket off her sister and quickly covered her with her own dry one. “Marina is burning up. Get Mrs. Varjensky.”
Mama flew out of their quarters and was back in a matter of seconds with a groggy Mrs. Varjensky in tow. The old woman took in the situation in a glance and knelt beside Marina. She touched the girl’s forehead, throat, arms, and opened her eyelids to reveal a solid white.
Mrs. Varjensky’s face wrinkled. “Herbs no help this. Need something more.”
Panic bolted through every inch of Svetlana. The old woman was a wise healer. If she couldn’t help . . . Svetlana jumped to her feet and pulled her clothes on, her decision immediate. “I know precisely the person.”
Chapter 11
Sleep was the only thing on Wynn’s mind as he made out the last of the Blighty tickets. Slips worth more than gold to send the wounded home to England for recovery or for good. He printed Harkin’s name on the last ticket, which boldly stated “rest and release from formal duties.” Harkin had done his bit. He was free at last. Wynn signed the bottom and added the document to the stack to be given to the patients in the morning. This time next week those lucky devils would be crossing the Channel, leaving the stench of war far behind. If only all his patients were so lucky.
Stretching out of the stiff chair, he left his office and made a final round of the post-op ward. Rumors abounded of faltering Austria-Hungary lines and Germany doubting continued victories on the battlefield. The words armistice and peace negotiations floated on prayers that were battered remnants of hope after four dragging years of war.
As Wynn made his way back downstairs and crossed the vestibule, the front doors banged open. An echo thudded down the length of his body, not from the disturbing sound but rather the sight.
Svetlana. Wide-eyed. Clothes haphazard and breathing hard.
And she was staring straight at him. “I need you.”
* * *
There is a sense of pride when a physician is able to diagnosis a patient correctly—not in a sense of gloating righteousness, but that his skills could be used for the betterment of his patient. Too often skills are not enough and must concede to bitter failure. It was with this knowledge Wynn grappled when Svetlana told him of Marina’s symptoms. He could be wrong, but he doubted it.
Ordering an ambulance to find them at the church, Wynn grabbed his medical bag and raced with Svetlana to Marina as dawn cracked the sky. Running was faster than waiting for the ambulance to twist through the narrow streets. Even so, by the time they arrived, blood had begun to trickle from the young girl’s nose. Wynn kept the diagnosis to himself as they loaded her into the ambulance and drove back to hospital with masks covering their noses and mouths. Once there, he had to block the entrance to the quarantine ward as Svetlana and her mother tried to push past him.
“This is a restricted area,” he said in his calmest doctor voice, bracing his arms across the door. “Medical staff only.”
“Restricted for what?” Ana shrieked, wringing her hands and fluttering about like a caged bird.
“Influenza.”
With a gasp, she wilted against the wall.
Svetlana didn’t flinch. “What will happen?”
It had been a long while since he’d seen her. She was thinner, with a weary countenance that had become more pronounced. Awkwardness from their ill-parting lingered in the tension between them.
“She’ll be kept as comfortable as possible in a temperature-even room with other afflicted patients. She’ll be sponged down and have her sheets changed as needed, and kept hydrated in hopes of staving off pneumonia. That’s all we can do.”
“What about medicine?”
He shook his head. “This strain is like nothing we’ve encountered. It defies every preconceived notion we have of the virus. There’s nothing we can do but wait it out.” To see if they live or die. It was the worst, most powerless situation.
“Then I will wait with my sister.” Ducking, Svetlana slipped under his arm.
He caught her elbow and pulled her away as her fingers brushed the door. At times of family consultations when he had to give heartbreaking news, he relied on a reserve of professional calm and detachment. Many outside the medical field called it coldly impersonal, but it was necessary lest emotion destroy the order he was trying to keep.
All detached order shattered the moment he touched her. It was as if a live wire had been routed under his skin to his heart, jolting it alive. He’d tried to put her out of his mind and thought he was having a rather decent go at it, but that involuntary reaction told him he’d failed miserably.
“Your desire to help is admirable, but I’m short staffed and there aren’t enough nurses as it is. The last thing I need is for you to come down sick, too, adding to our increasing list.”
She glanced down at his hand still holding her elbow but didn’t move to dislodge him. “With not enough nurses to see to proper care, you have no argument to be selective. I will nurse my sister.”
He did have an argument, a very good one, but her twist of semantics wasn’t the most important one at the moment. “You don’t have proper training.”