“All done.”
The woman’s white fingers were latched around the edges of his desk, her mouth a colorless slash across her pale face.
Wynn gently touched her shoulder. “You can breathe now.”
She took a deep breath, breaking free from the protective shell of silence the wounded often enclosed themselves within to endure a procedure. “Thank you.”
“Care for the souvenir?” Wynn pointed at the jagged bit of bottle. Dirty piece of work that. The Frenchwoman who threw it ought to be forced to crawl over the fragments herself.
“It is common to keep an object of such torment?”
“Many of the soldiers do with their shrapnel and bullets. I wrap the items in a strip of cloth and tie it around the patient’s arm after surgery. It’s a badge of honor that they like to show the folks back home.”
“It is not a reminder I need.” Smoothing her skirts, she eased off the desk in one fluid movement.
Wynn turned to his other patient with an encouraging smile. “Now, madam, it’s your turn.” Kneeling, he quickly unwrapped the older woman’s hand. The bleeding had stopped to reveal clean but deep cuts. The kind only slivered glass or metal could inflict. “How did she receive this?”
The young woman hesitated. “She tried to remove the glass from my leg. In Russia she is considered a great healer.”
“It was you who concocted that green paste.” Wynn held up the linen he’d used to clean away the mixture. The old woman nodded in a knowing manner and replied in Russian.
“A mash of yarrow mixed with comfrey water,” the young woman translated.
“Good work,” Wynn said.
The young woman translated softly in Russian, each word brightening the old woman’s face. She seemed to ask a question in return.
The young woman nodded. “Da, babushka.”
Grinning to reveal a missing tooth, the old woman patted Wynn’s cheek with her free hand. Dabbing more iodine onto a clean swatch of gauze, he cleaned her cuts. A hiss of air escaped her cracked lips.
A thick braid of pale blond slipped over the young woman’s shoulder as she bent close to the old woman’s ear. “Uspokoysya, babushka.”
Wynn nodded in encouragement. “You’re doing fine, Mrs. Babushka.”
The young woman’s eyebrows drew together. “Why do you call her this?”
“Is that not her name?”
“Babushka is Russian for ‘grandmother.’”
“Oh. Forgive me. I meant no disrespect.”
“It is very respectful to call older generations this in recognition of their wisdom.”
“What a relief. My own grandmother would’ve skelped me if I dared to call her something so informal in public. A great protector of propriety, she was.”
The old woman looked up at the younger lady and asked something. Nodding, the younger lady spoke quickly, gesturing to Wynn a few times. As she finished translating, the old woman’s face crackled into a smile.
She patted Wynn’s cheek. “Golubchik.”
“Mrs. Varjensky says you are sweet.”
Wynn bowed over the injured hand still in his grasp. “A pleasure, Mrs. Varjensky. I’m Edwynn MacCallan, but I prefer Wynn.”
“Golubchik.” Mrs. Varjensky patted his cheek again, then indicated the younger woman. “Yeyo Spokoystviye Printsessa Svetlana Dmitrievna Dalsky.”
Did she say princess?
The young woman blanched and placed a hand on Mrs. Varjensky’s shoulder. “Svetlana Dalsky. Please.”
Brow wrinkling, Mrs. Varjensky rattled off a string of Russian, which Svetlana’s response quickly combated.
Taking it as a conversation on the forgoing of noble titles that he wasn’t intended to hear, Wynn grabbed a bandage and quickly wrapped Mrs. Varjensky’s hand.
“It may take a few days to heal, but if the pain worsens you and your grandmother—”
“She is not my grandmother,” Svetlana said.
“No? I thought . . . Well, that’s me with both feet in my mouth now.”
She glanced down at his feet. “What does this mean with feet still on the ground? They are too large and unsanitary for such a task.”
“It’s an expression. Means I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.”
“We are speaking. Why would you wish to remain silent?”
“I don’t translate into Russian very well, do I?” Wynn laughed and set about tidying the used supplies before Gerard could come in and question the impromptu surgery. “It means I say the wrong thing sometimes. Not usually on purpose. Don’t tell me you’ve never slipped and said something you shouldn’t.”
“No.”
“Never?”
“I have been trained out of the habit.” Taking Mrs. Varjensky’s arm, she helped the old woman to her feet. “How much do we owe you?”
Wynn waved his hand. “On the house.” At Svetlana’s confused look around the room, he clarified. “We don’t charge for patients in need at wartime.”
“Spasibo. Thank you.”
“Spasibo, golubchik,” repeated Mrs. Varjensky with another pat to Wynn’s cheek.
Wynn followed them out into the grand lobby turned waiting room. The smell of eggs and bacon drifted from the industrial-size kitchen as breakfast was readied for the patients.
With the immediate distraction of wounds and blood taken care of, Wynn’s curiosity about the previous night swung back at full force. “Allow me to escort you. I would call for a carriage or one of those new motorcars, but most of them have been commandeered to support the frontlines.”
Svetlana pulled her colorful shawl over her head. “That is not necessary. We can find our way on foot.”
“You may be able to find your way, but I’d rather not find you tottered off into a gutter come morning. Doctor’s orders.” That and he had no intention of allowing two injured women to wander down the road alone. Paris was far enough from the frontline, but that didn’t make the streets safe.
“If you insist.” Without waiting, Svetlana took Mrs. Varjensky’s arm and left the building, leaving Wynn to follow in their wake.
As he hurried to take the older woman’s other arm, she winked up at him and hobbled around to the other side of Svetlana, leaving him to walk next to the princess in hiding. Seemed no matter the culture all grandmothers and babushkas maneuvered the same way. Not that he minded walking next to a beautiful woman. He just preferred one who spoke to him without frowning.
The sun peaked over the blue and gray slate roofs of buildings, dusting the world with brilliant orange light that reflected off the hundreds of windows lining the sandstone facades, rousing the sleeping inhabitants within from slumber. Paris was a city of life, but here in the quiet one could take a deep breath before the bustle seized it away. His favorite time of day.
“How long have you been in France?” he asked.
“Six months.”
“Traveling in the middle of winter. That must have been difficult. I hear Russian winters are brutal.”
“Yes.” With each limping step her mouth pressed tighter and tighter. Wynn reached for her arm. “Lean against my arm. It’ll take the pressure off your leg.”
She pulled away. “I can manage alone.”
She could manage her stubbornness sure enough. If the pain grew to be too much, he’d have to carry her. He could imagine the protests at that prospect.
“Did you travel alone?”
“No.”
“With family?”
“Yes.”
Like trying to crack a wall of ice with his bare hands. Wynn changed tactics as they bypassed Parc Monceau and with it the memories of last evening’s chase through the foliage.