“Then prove it. If you’re my brother, tell me something only the two of us would know.”
Jack looked at Will with Victor’s face, but not with Victor’s expression. There was something in the set of the eyebrows and the twist of the mouth—a hint of something volatile and violent. For a long moment, it seemed as though he would say nothing, and then, almost reluctantly, he said, “I used to read to you.”
Was he making this up? Looking at Jack’s face, Lizzie wasn’t certain. He didn’t seem like he was lying, but if he was telling the truth... Could the two personalities have access to each other’s thoughts and feelings?
Will made it clear that he harbored no doubts. “Liar.” The gun was shaking in his grip now. “You were always away at school.”
Jack shrugged with elaborate unconcern as he said, “Maybe you were too young to remember it.”
“Doesn’t count, then. Tell me something else.” Will swiped at his brow with his free arm. Sweat was running into his eyes.
“I can’t just pull something out of my ar...hat,” said Jack, his face reddening as he glanced over at Lizzie. “I don’t remember all that much.”
“Because you’re not my brother.”
“Fine, have it your way. But I did read to you. Some stupid children’s book about a rabbit with a pocket watch and a girl named Alex?”
Will’s expression flickered with uncertainty. “Do you mean...Alice?”
“Sure, whatever,” said Jack, but it was clear to Lizzie that his nonchalance was an act, and that underneath, he was as troubled as Will by these memories. He and Victor were connected, and perhaps growing more so over time. “Now, would you put down that bloomin’ peashooter? That thing’s got a hair trigger. Longer you wave it about, the better the chance some poor cove gets a bullet in his chest.”
“Shut up.” Will shook his head as if to clear it. His gun hand was wavering now, and he brought up his other arm to steady it. “How do you know anything about this gun? My brother barely touched them. You’re trying to trick me.”
“It’s not a trick. Your brother is in there,” said Lizzie at the same moment that Jack rolled his shoulders and said, “Right, enough of this.”
It felt as though the room narrowed until it contained nothing but Will and Jack. Time seemed to slow, giving Lizzie plenty of opportunity to watch as Jack swung up his gauntleted arm and Will raised the pistol. Her vision tunneled down further, focusing on Will’s trigger finger and, because it was all happening so slowly, she had plenty of time to move in front of Victor, blocking him with her body.
She wasn’t being brave. She was being practical. She knew Will would never shoot at her, and that was why the loud bang took her completely by surprise. It sounded like fireworks going off right next to her left ear, and then there was a puff of black smoke, the sulfurous stench of gunpowder and a ringing silence. In that frozen moment, she had all the time she needed to understand that the gun must have gone off. Just as that thought sank in, she became conscious of a burning sensation in her arm, and then the whole room tilted.
“Elizabeth!”
Now she was looking up into Jack’s eyes...Victor’s eyes—she wasn’t sure whose eyes they were anymore, because they looked frightened, and she had never seen either man look frightened before. Did you get shot? She thought it, but for some reason, her mouth wasn’t working right.
“Oh, my God,” said Justine. “Look at all the blood!”
Blood? Where? Lizzie couldn’t see any blood. She shivered, suddenly cold, and realized that she was lying in something wet. She felt as if she were in a tunnel, with muffled voices all speaking at once above her.
“Elizabeth,” said Victor, gathering her into his arms. At least, she thought it was Victor. It was a new Victor—not the wary prisoner taking her measure, not the bemused laboratory assistant listening to her rant, and not the confident medical student telling her where to go. This Victor looked deeply shaken as he pressed down on her right arm, making her groan. “Oh, Elizabeth. Why did you step in front of me?”
What a ridiculous question. “He was going to shoot you,” she said. It came out sounding breathy and girlish, more like Justine than like her usual voice.
“The bleeding isn’t slowing,” said Will. “Why isn’t the bleeding slowing?”
“You might have nicked an artery.” Victor moved his hand so that he was pressing higher up on her arm, underneath the armpit. The brachial artery. She liked the way he used the term “nick” instead of “hit.” Good bedside manner, that. You don’t want to panic the patient, because panic makes the heart pound, which pumps even more blood. “Is the pressure working?” If it didn’t, he was going to have to apply a tourniquet, which could compromise the limb.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of you.”
That was good, she thought muzzily. No one had taken care of her in years and years. She smiled at him and the lights began to dim, graying out Victor’s features.
“Damn it, she’s losing consciousness,” he said. “Direct pressure, Will! I need to get that corset off!”
“Oh, God,” said Will. “I’ve killed her.” And then, abruptly, sound and light were both extinguished, and dark silence came down like a curtain.
33
Help. Elizabeth needed help, and Will was barely able to keep pressure on Elizabeth’s wound. Victor looked up and saw Makepiece watching him. Without hesitation, but with full awareness of what he was doing, he said, “You have to help her.”
“I’m not a medical doctor,” said Makepiece. “I have no idea what to do to save Miss Lavenza. But you do, Victor.” There was a calculating look in his eye. “You are Victor now, aren’t you?” He stroked his beard contemplatively. “I’ve known for some time that you had regained some higher cognitive functioning, but I had no idea that you had two personalities coexisting in one body.”
Victor looked down at Elizabeth. They didn’t have time for this. They needed to find out how much damage that bullet might have done, bouncing around inside her. “What do you want from me?”
The bushy eyebrows lifted. “Why, I want you to take charge, Victor. I want you to remember who and what you were. I want you to drive out that other personality and save Miss Lavenza.”
That was what Victor wanted, as well, but could he do it? No time for doubt now. He needed to disinfect his hands. His hand. Clearly, his left appendage would be no help. Could he even perform a surgery one-handed? He recalled an old boast, from his other life: I can do this with one hand tied behind my back. God was paying him back for his old hubris. Elizabeth was so pale now, her freckles stark against her white face. She didn’t look like herself, and the sight chilled him.
No. That’s the other side thinking. I’m going to need a bit of my old arrogance now, he realized. Victor took a deep breath and made himself look only at the site of the wound.
She’s a patient. See her as a patient.
“We need a table,” he said sharply, turning to Makepiece.
“In the other room. I’ll clear it off.”
“Wait. I also need a sheet or a blanket, something to help us lift her up without jostling her.”
“In the wardrobe over there,” said Justine. “Oh, dear God, is she going to be all right?”
“Yes,” said Victor, because any other outcome was unthinkable.
“I’ve got a blanket here,” Will said, his voice so choked he sounded twelve again.
Victor looked up for a moment, directly into his brother’s eyes. Damnation. He recognized that whipped puppy look from childhood. He needed to get Will steady again, so he could keep it together enough to help Elizabeth...or to take over the surgery, if necessary. “Good man. We’re going to tilt her as gently as possible...keep her neck and spine aligned...yes.”
“I’ve got the table clear,” said Makepiece, as they brought Elizabeth through the
bookcase opening and out into the other room.
“Daddy, please, let me out of here,” Justine was calling. “I want to help.”
Makepiece ignored her. There was a thoughtful look on his face as he said, “How bad is it?”
“Get me scissors so we can find out.” He held out his hand without looking, and Makepiece slapped something into his palm. Victor cut through the cotton shirtwaist blouse, which was already tacky with blood, uncovering the front-lacing corset. He tried to saw through the laces with the scissors, but the thickness of the crisscrossed fabric made it impossible.
“Will! Help me loosen these.”
His brother had turned away, either out of squeamishness or to preserve Elizabeth’s modesty. As if she would care, under the circumstances.
Now Will was pulling ineffectually at the laces, which had become slippery with blood still flowing from her arm.
“I can’t do it!” he said. “Can’t we cut them or something?”
Maybe it would work this time—the laces were a little looser now. On his second attempt, however, the scissors snapped apart, the point slicing into his hand. “Damn it. I need something stronger...a hacksaw. Do you have one?”
“No,” said Makepiece. “But you’ve got something stronger, Victor.” He pointed to Victor’s gauntleted left arm, where metal had been fused with another man’s flesh and grafted onto his own body. For a stunned second, he realized that he had been so busy tending to Elizabeth that he had forgotten just what he was.
But would the hand obey his commands? He had never tried to use the limb before, only to stop it from acting on its own. Frowning, he concentrated on raising the brass-reinforced fingers to the neck of the corset. This is your arm, he told himself, but the arm didn’t feel as though he had any control over it. He might as well have been seven years old again, attempting to wiggle his ears the way Henry could.
“Victor, I think she’s...she’s not breathing!”
Will’s voice broke through the paralysis gripping him. Suddenly, Victor’s hands were moving, anchoring themselves in the top of the corset and ripping it apart. He was dimly aware of his brother’s whispered prayer as he bent his head to Elizabeth’s chest. With a shuddering gasp, she dragged in a breath of air, then another.
“Thank God!”
“Less praying and more pressure, Will. I’m going to need to perform a surgical ligation to stop the bleeding. Makepiece, I need carbolic solution to disinfect the wound site, a scalpel, sutures and surgical sponges.”
“Can you save her arm?” Makepiece sounded genuinely concerned. Perhaps he did care for Elizabeth, after all. She would need the use of both her arms to be a doctor.
Victor hesitated. Can I do this? The old Victor could have done this operation in the dark, but he was no longer the brash young man who had doubted everything except himself. What if he became frightened and the other one—Jack—took over? It had already happened once, when he woke from his dream of Queen Victoria to find Makepiece staring at him. In the space of an instant, he had felt something shift, and suddenly it was Jack’s voice coming out of his mouth, Jack’s will moving his body.
“Victor?” Makepiece’s voice brought him out of his fog. “Can you help her?”
“Yes.” Victor became aware of the wheezing sound of the mechanical lung in the other room, and thought about the girl in the other room, a frail bird trapped in a metal cage. If Elizabeth dies, Makepiece must be thinking that his daughter would get a chance at a real life.
I may not trust myself, he thought, looking at Makepiece, but I trust you still less.
Out loud, he said, “Will. I’m going to need you to assist.” His brother was staring at the blood on the floor, shaking his head. “You can do this.” He paused before adding, “You have to do this.”
His brother met his eyes. “I’m here...Victor.”
Victor held out his right hand, palm up. “Scalpel.” The instrument was laid in his hand, and he closed his fingers around it. He made the mistake of looking down at Elizabeth’s face and saw that her hair had come loose, falling over her shoulders the way it had in his dream. He paused, scalpel hovering an inch above her upper arm. This was nothing like operating in the surgical theater, with an anonymous patient and Grimbald’s firm instructions to guide him. This was deeply, disturbingly personal, and the idea of slicing into Elizabeth’s flesh felt obscene, but she was still bleeding, even with Will putting pressure on the wound, and he had to do this, and he had to it now.
Help me, he thought, not sure if he was appealing to God or some other, baser source of power. All at once, he felt a cold, hard battle readiness slide through him, steadying his hand and his nerves. He remembered this feeling, and how it always came over him right before the shooting started.
Without allowing himself to pause and question either the gift or the memory, Victor made the first incision.
34
Lizzie woke up with a dry throat and a throbbing pain in her right arm. She was in a bed, but it wasn’t her own. In the gentle golden glow of gaslight, she could see that the duvet covering her was an unfamiliar dark green. There was a man’s jacket and hat on a coatrack in the corner, and a masculine form slumped in a chair to her right.
Victor.
“Where am I?” It came out as a croak.
“We carried you into Makepiece’s study.” Victor had unbuttoned the high collar of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves, and his hair was tousled, as if he’d been running his hands through it. “The couch isn’t quite as soft as a bed, but we didn’t want to move you too much.” He reached for her wrist and took her pulse, pulling back the lacy white sleeve of her nightgown. No, not her nightgown. She was wearing somebody else’s lace-embroidered linen gown...with seed pearls at the cuffs and neckline. “This isn’t mine.”
“It’s Justine’s.” He took her left hand and turned it over, pressing his fingers to her wrist.
“Thank her for me.” She found herself staring first at the strong column of Victor’s neck, revealed by the open shirt, then down at his fingers where they touched her pulse.
“You can thank her yourself when she wakes. I think she’s desperate for company, especially of the feminine sort.”
“First time anyone’s called me that.” She winced; it hurt to swallow.
“Throat sore? I have water, but first you need to sit up.” He placed his arm firmly under her back, lifting her higher. She was embarrassed to feel the cool dampness of the fabric against his warm arm; she had perspired through the borrowed nightgown. Maybe he won’t notice. He put the glass to her lips and she drank, trying not to think about the fact that she was completely naked under the nightgown. Could he see the shape of her uncorseted breasts through all that lace? Then she thought of a more pressing question.
“I don’t suppose it was Justine who removed my clothes and helped me on with this gown?”
Victor looked uncomfortable as he put the glass on a side table and helped her lie back down. “You know, as doctors, one must learn to cultivate a certain professional detachment...”
“Oh, dear God!” She moved her right arm without thinking, and all other considerations were washed away in a flash flood of pain.
When the agony had calmed down to a dull throb, she saw that Victor was holding out two white tablets in his right palm, and the glass of water in his left.
“For the pain.”
“Thanks.” The throbbing in her shoulder felt as though someone was clubbing her rhythmically, but she focused on getting the pills on the back of her tongue and then held out her hand for the glass of water.
He made a move as if to help her sit up, and she glared at him until he backed off. She managed to lift her head and neck long enough to get the pills down, and then lay back down. It took a little while, but the pain began to recede. She drifted with it, remembering how the tide looked as it pulled b
ack out to sea, exposing sand dollars on the beach.
“Feeling better?”
She was surprised to discover Victor still there, sitting beside her. “Mmm,” she said. “What did you give me?” It had to have been some pretty excellent salicylin.
“Morphine.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
“You were shot and had surgery. You needed it.” He placed the back of his hand on her forehead and then on the back of her neck. “I don’t think you’re running a fever, but I’d like to be certain.” He removed a glass thermometer from its wooden case.
“That had better be for my mouth.”
His mouth quirked in a smile, which he quickly suppressed. “Yes, the thermometer is intended for oral use.”
“No need to sound so stuffy about it. Since you obviously feel no compunctions about taking off my clothes, how am I to know what other liberties you might take with my person?”
“There was no one else, saving Will and Makepiece! I had no choice.”
“Fine. It was clearly some onerous duty, thrust upon you by fate.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So you did enjoy it.”
He took a deep breath, then released it. “I didn’t say that, either.” He pressed his lips together and held out the thermometer. “Now, I need to take your temperature.”
“Have you seen a lot of naked women?”
He shook the glass thermometer with a few sharp flicks of his wrist. “I’m not responding to this line of inquiry, Elizabeth.”
“I take that as an affirmative.”
Checking the mercury level one last time, he gave no sign he had heard her. “Place this under your tongue and try not to bite down on the thermometer.”
“I know how thu uthe a thermother!”
“And don’t speak.”
Now it was her turn to be selectively deaf. “How thu I look naketh?”
“I wasn’t looking at you as a naked woman, Elizabeth. I was focused on ligating your brachial artery.”
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