bed.
âSit,â Thornhollow said. âObviously, I wonât be coring your brain. Triangular cuts at your temple should be enough to convince that witless Heedson that youâve been damaged. You do realize youâll be scarred?â
âYes,â Grace said as she settled into the chair.
Thornhollow nodded. âVery good. As to the cutting itself, Iâll be dosing you with ether, so there will be no pain.â
Graceâs hands grasped the seat of the chair. âNo, Doctor.â
âIâm sorry?â
âIâll take no ether, sir.â
âGrace, you must understandââ
âNo, you must understand. Iâll not be witless for a moment.â
Thornhollow frowned, his brows drawing together. âDo you not trust me?â
âI trust you with my life. Nothing more.â
The blade hovered in the air, the slightest tremor betraying him. âIâll need you to be utterly still through the pain. Youâre no use to me if you twitch and I accidentally put your eye out.â
Grace sat straight in the chair. âIâve been still through worse.â
Thornhollow nodded his assent and moved behind her. âAll right then, look up at the ceiling, if you please.â
The first cut brought a slice of heat near her eye; a second slice came close to her hairline, followed by pressure as the doctor pressed a clean rag against the wound. âHold this,â he said, drawing her hand up to the wad of cloth. âTightly as you can stand,â he added when she gripped it.
Grace concentrated, all sense of self lost as he moved to her other side, and the pain, bearable in its familiarity, flashed again. Thornhollow pushed against the wound with one hand, the other reaching for a ball of lint on the table.
âIâll soak this in the oil,â he said, âand dress the wounds with gauze. I doubt Heedson would go so far as to flap back the skin to see if I truly punctured your skull, but I wouldnât put it past my bad luck to have him decide to suddenly take interest in his patients when I need him at his most incompetent.â
Grace nodded her understanding but said nothing. Black spots had started to float in her vision as a stream of warm blood trickled down both cheeks. âIs it . . .â Her voice floated off, lost in the darkness of the room beyond their lanterns.
âIs it . . . ? Whoops-a-daisy,â Thornhollow said, righting Grace as she slumped in the chair. âSteady now, girl. Almost done.â
With his hands flashing about the work and oil of roses following in the wake of blood, Grace felt the warmth returning to herhands, now resting in her lap. âIâd not thought thereâd be so much blood,â she ventured to say when she trusted her voice again.
âHead wounds do tend to bleed,â the doctor answered, his eyes not leaving her bandage as he tied it securely about her head. âThere,â he finished, patting her crown like a child. âNicely done. No bow, but I suppose youâll not mind the fashion faux pas. Rest a moment, then weâll go about our little ruse.â
âDoctor,â Grace said as he leaned back against the table to rest. âI have a friend here, in the ward. A woman named Mrs. Clay. Thereâs nothing wrongââ
Thornhollow waved her words away before she could finish. âIt cannot be done.â
âBut I owe herââ
âThat may very well be, and Iâm sure sheâs a fine sort. One finds many unfortunate women tucked away in places such as this. But sheâs of no use to me, and Iâm hardly running the Underground Railroad for Insane Women.â
âI donât underââ
Thornhollow raised his palm. âGetting you out of here will be difficult enough, and I stand to gain by your release. Attempting to rescue the ill-fated Mrs. Clay would be sheer madness, if youâll allow me the use of the
Landon Dixon, Giselle Renarde, Beverly Langland