“Pour alcohol into that pan.”
With a slight tremble in her hand, she did as instructed while Wynn made the shallow cut on Marina’s back. Taking a rod with cotton wrapped around the tip, he dipped it in the alcohol, then lit it afire with a match. He popped the burning cotton end into one of the glass cups, then immediately yanked it out and placed the cup on Marina’s back. Three more times he did this.
“The fire helps create suction, which will loosen the mucus. The Chinese have been practicing the art for centuries, and it’s become popular in French hospitals.” He set his extinguished cotton rod on the trolley. “It’s the best option we have.”
“I trust you.” She did, she realized with a start. With no reservation.
It was difficult to decipher his entire expression with the lower half of his face covered by a mask, but she knew he weighed her words carefully.
“I’m glad,” he said at last.
Was that relief she heard? The shame of the words spoken to him that night so many weeks before burned through her as thoroughly as the fire had those bits of cotton. Apologizing was not a task she was entirely familiar with, having done so only on limited occasions. In circles of nobility, opinions were often treated as facts and boastful comments taken as law. It was then easy to accept every instinct and word issued as the right one. Never doubt; only confidence. Until meeting a man who forced her to look beyond the shallow waters in which she’d tread her entire life.
She cleared her throat. “That night we last spoke—”
The curtain ripped open and the towering Sister Elton stared at her. “I saw you take the cupping trolley. Is there— Oh. Dr. MacCallan.” Her eyes swiftly took in the scene. “Congestion, is it? She take any of that broth?”
Svetlana shook her head. “She started coughing.” Marina mumbled incoherently. Svetlana dabbed a wet cloth across her fevered forehead.
“When she rouses we’ll try Bovril with milk. She’ll need nourishment. They all do.” With that terrifying truth, Sister Elton returned to her duties on the floor. Marina’s labored breathing filled the small space. She wasn’t alone. Harsh breathing, hacking coughs, gasping, and cries of pain spiraled through the ward as the rows of patients struggled for life. Svetlana had overheard a nurse say six of the men had died since that morning after being struck down only the night before.
Pulling the single chair close to Marina’s head, Svetlana sank onto it. “What happens next?”
Crossing his arms, Wynn leaned against the wall. His critical gaze swept over Marina, possibly analyzing every drop of sweat, shiver, and erratic breath.
“We wait. The first twenty-four hours are the worst. If she makes it through, she stands a good chance at recovery.”
Svetlana followed Wynn’s gaze, but instead of a patient or medical prognosis, all she could see was her sweet little sister. Always kind and trusting. The peacemaker who bound their mismatched family together. Svetlana pushed a wet strand of hair from her hot cheek.
“She doesn’t deserve this. If anyone must be sick, it should have struck me.”
“No one deserves this. Every patient in this hospital has been battling for far too long. Your sister in the Revolution and the soldiers in the war. To survive four horrendous years of bombing and killing only to be taken down by a fever. It’s beyond reckoning.”
“What is this reckoning?”
“Beyond reckoning. It means beyond understanding. Difficult to come to terms with.”
The prolonged tension throbbed. “Much the same could be said of our acquaintance.”
“If one was attempting to define the thing, yes, I suppose they could.” His gaze moved to her, piercing skin and bone straight to the spikes of her pride. “Though I’ve never been called difficult a day in my life. They must be referring to you.”
She opened her mouth for a retort but promptly closed it as she realized she’d been about to prove his point. If he was set on taking her down a gilded peg, then she would return the favor. After all, he wasn’t completely blameless in provoking her hurtful words.
“One could say charm is rather difficult to come to terms with.”
Instead of being insulted as she intended, he laughed. “Not in my case, so I’ll take that as a compliment.” Pushing off the wall, he stood next to Marina’s bed. One by one, he popped the glass cups from her back and placed them on the trolley. Round bruises now marred the pale skin. “The bruising will go away in a few days. Her breathing should be easier.”
Marina twitched away from him and mumbled.
Svetlana pulled the blanket over her sister’s bare back. The sheets needed to be changed again. “She’s not sleeping well.”
“And likely won’t until the fever breaks. It’s the body’s way of fighting off the virus.”
“Is Dr. MacCallan here?” The voice came from the other side of the curtain.
Wynn stuck his head out of the curtain and spoke using words like X-ray and cranial suture. He popped back in and rubbed the back of his neck, bringing Svetlana’s attention to the brush of whiskers trailing his jawline just below his mask, the faint red lines creeping into his eyes, and the husky tiredness coating his voice. The desire to fetch him a blanket and pillow and stroke his hair as he fell asleep swelled over her.
She tucked her hands in her lap before they got ideas. “You should rest.”
“I’ll rest when the work is done.”
“The work of war may never be done. You’ll die on your feet and then what will your patients do?”
“You’re a rather morbid encourager.”
“Russians are firmly rooted in the dramatic. We know no other way.”
“Don’t I know it.” He moved to open the curtain. “Try to get some rest yourself. For your sister’s sake as well as your own.”
“‘I’ll rest when the work is done.’” The words rushed from her heart before she could stop them. Before he would be too far gone to hear them. “Dr. MacCallan. Wynn. It’s good to see you.”
He looked at her for a long moment. The corners of his eyes crinkled, a telltale sign of the smile beneath his mask. “It’s good to see you too.”
* * *
Wynn stood aside, the book in his hand forgotten, as three more covered bodies were carried down the stairs to be taken out back of the hospital to await transport to the mass grave being dug outside the city. One of many constructed lately to accommodate the influenza victims. There were simply too many.
“Are these all?” he asked the last orderly.
“Two more. Civilians. We’ll come back and fetch them once the Sisters have finished washing the bodies.”
Dread filling him, Wynn waited until the grim procession passed out of sight before sprinting the remaining stairs to the infectious ward. Death steals boldly in the dark night of a sick ward, seizing those in rest who otherwise remain vigilant in light of day. He heard the rattles of breath and the shivers leaving bodies weak and exposed to searching Death.
The Sisters stood guard as they patrolled up and down the aisles, but none stood by the curtained bed. Wynn hurried toward it and pulled back the flimsy material. Marina lay on the bed with red blotching her cheeks. Svetlana sat in the chair next to her, her cheek resting on her arm beside her sister’s hand. Asleep.
He released a shaky breath. Death had not visited. He checked the medical chart attached to the foot of the bed, then performed a quick examination of the patient, careful not to disturb her. She was still feverish, but the sheets were dry. The crucial twenty-four hours had passed, yet she remained in some danger. Patients often seemed to recover the second day only to relapse.