The only reason they don’t all die of cholera and typhoid is probably because they mostly don’t drink water, they drink boiled tea or beer from a stall. Or gin.
The wards were like ovens. Only those with high fevers benefited, for to them, the air was cooler than they were. Poor things; there was ice here, but not for charity patients. People lay in their beds with a single sheet over them, sweating and in pain; the nurses couldn’t bring water to them fast enough and boiling teakettles for clean, sterilized drinking water only added to the heat. Maya had put every visiting relative to work, fanning the invalids and sponging their faces, and even that didn’t help much.
The only place she’d found that was even marginally cooler than the rest of the hospital was this small room for linen storage. Here, where the air smelled faintly of bleach and clean fabric, where the cries of those in the wards were muffled, and where she was, for the moment, alone, Maya rested her forehead on a shelf support and clung to it with both hands, hoping to find a little more energy to take her through the next two hours before she could go home. Tendrils of hair clung damply to her forehead and the back of her neck; her scalp was sweating, and the pompadour on the top of her head felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds.
I knew it would be like this. And I am helping them. I’m helping them more than most of the other doctors here are. Most—well, many, anyway—of the other doctors had made rounds early in the day before it became so terribly hot, and now were at home themselves, probably having iced gin and tonics. At least this once there was an advantage in being a woman. She could wear a cool dress here and a sari at home, but no gentleman would ever be seen, even in the comfort of his own parlor, without at least a linen suit coat, trousers, and fine shirt.
There were no surgeries scheduled in this heat, although, of course, if an emergency came in that needed immediate surgery, someone would have to be found to deal with it.
Pray God one doesn’t come in. The operating theaters were worse than ovens, with the skylights letting in the direct sunlight. The Female Theater didn’t bear thinking about, former attic as it was, and Maya swore to herself that if she had a woman come in needing an emergency operation, she was going to use the Men’s Theater, and damn the consequences.
Wounds went septic horribly fast in this heat; limbs that could be salvaged in cooler weather almost always had to be amputated. Please, no amputations today, she thought, almost in despair. I cannot deal with an amputation today, not on top of everything else—
“Hiding, are we?” said a detested voice from behind her, in a tone probably intended to be suave, that only sounded slimy. “And just what are you doing here where you shouldn’t be?”
Simon Parkening. Just what I needed to put a cap on my day. “I have every right to be here, Mister Parkening, since I work in this hospital,” Maya replied crisply, turning to face the interloper, and emphasizing the man’s lack of the honorific of “doctor.”
“I, however, would very much like to know why you are here. As far as I am aware, you have no need for hospital linens.”
Parkening’s eyes widened in momentary surprise, then a broad, smug grin spread over his face. “Well, well! If it isn’t the little lady doctor. I didn’t recognize you in such a very becoming gown. I thought you were some young wench on a larking visit, hiding from her beau.”
“Well, now that you know better, you can go on about your business,” Maya retorted, a queasy feeling rising in her stomach, her forehead starting to sweat with nervousness. She did not like the expression on Parkening’s face, nor the speculative look in his eyes. “I have a great deal of work to do, and I need to get back to it, and if you came to see your uncle, you’ll find him at his home.”
“That’s coming on a bit strong, don’t you think?” Parkening replied, taking a step nearer. “You can’t expect me to believe that you came here dressed like that—” he gestured at her gown, “—intending to work? Do you take me for a fool? You were waiting here to meet someone, weren’t you?”
To Maya’s horror, he moved closer.
“You’re hiding in here to meet with your lover, aren’t you?” he said, grinning nastily. “Who is it? That filthy Irishman? I suppose a little half-breed like you would take up with some mongrel like him—”
Suddenly his hands shot out, and he seized her by the upper arms before she could move.
“You ought to try a real white man, not a miserable dog of a Mick,” he continued, then pulled her to him with a jerk, forcing his mouth down on hers. His teeth ground into her lips as he tried to force them open with his tongue. He crushed her against his chest in a cruelly hard grip with one hand clenched tight enough to bruise her biceps, while his free hand groped for her breast, pawing at her with lust. She couldn’t open her mouth to scream without getting his filthy tongue down her throat.
But something in her reacted to the outrage with potent fury.
No!
Shock galvanized her and filled her with diamond-hard hate; they combined in a single moment of sheer outrage, and before she thought, she struck at him—but not with her fists, with her mind.
Earth-born power rose within her unbidden; lava-hot with rage, it welled up inside her and overflowed, all in an instant. She couldn’t have controlled it if she’d wanted to, and she didn’t want to. It rose up in a mountainous wave, paused, and avalanched down on Simon Parkening, smashing him with a crushing blow before she could take a smothered breath.
He choked, let her go; she staggered backward a pace, and he dropped like a stone, sprawling on the floor of the storage room as if a champion boxer had just laid him out.
Maya gasped, and stumbled back into the support of the shelves, one hand on the upright, the other at her bruised lips.
What have I done? Is he dead?
For one long moment she could hardly breathe for the panic that thought triggered. But then, when Parkening groaned and stirred a little, sense reasserted itself, and her outrage returned.
I defended myself, that’s what I’ve done! And there’s nothing wrong with that! As anger broke through the shock and allowed her to think again, Parkening brought up both hands, slowly, to his head, and curled into a fetal position. From the look of him, he wasn’t going to wake up very soon, and when he did—he’d be hurting. She put out her hand, slowly, to get a sense of what she’d done to him.
Something—like a concussion. Serves you right, you—you cad! she thought at him, hot anger choking her and making her flush. If I didn’t know that your uncle would blame me for this, I’d turn you in to him, I would!
But Clayton-Smythe would take one look at her, and probably decide that she had tried to seduce his nephew, and not the other way around. No—this would have to do for punishment. She bent over and touched him on the shoulder—briefly—just long enough to determine exactly how much damage she’d done.