Yellow sits slumped over, cradling her arm.
“How are you?” I ask.
“This hurts,” she whispers. But I have to say, she looks a lot more coherent than I was. Of course, I did do a better job of cutting the tracker out of her arm than I did my own. I was more careful. More precise. I didn’t go digging around for the damned thing, probably nicking several arteries in the process.
A few minutes later, after we’ve passed the Meeting Hall, a very primitive form of Fanueil Hall—hard to believe that will be a tourist mecca someday—and a street that will one day house a line of bars, the boy stops the wagon in front of a shingled two-story house.
“Dr. Hatch lives here,” the boy says.
I jump from the back of the wagon. “Thank you.” As I help Yellow down, I turn back to him. “Is the doctor at home?”
The boy shrugs his shoulders. His eyes are wide, as if he’s afraid of us. He looks away, flicks the reins, and the wagon takes off.
Yellow pulls away the sweater to examine her injury. “Looks like the bleeding is slowing down.”
I peer in to look, too. She’s right. The blood’s still flowing, but it isn’t pouring out of her arm like it was before. And Yellow seems fine. Well, not fine, I guess, but she’s in no danger of passing out like I was. Although it probably wasn’t the smartest idea to use cashmere as a tourniquet. Little ivory fuzzies are now mixed in with the blood.
“Do you think we can just leave it?” she asks.
I glance at her arm again and shake my head. “The cut is too deep.” I reach up and knock on the door. “It won’t heal without stitches.”
Yellow nods.
A few moments later, the door swings open, and a very small man stands before us. He’s practically Yellow’s size. He’s wearing a white shirt with wide, puffy sleeves, brown short trousers that stop at his knees, white stockings, and black shoes with a big buckle on each of them.
“Are you Dr. Hatch?” I ask.
“I am.” He looks Yellow and me up and down. He has a distant, distrustful look on his face.
“We need your help, sir. My friend was . . . was stabbed. With a knife. In the arm. Can you stitch it for her?”
The doctor takes another look at Yellow, and his eyes fall on her supershort skirt. “No.” Then he takes a step back and slams the door in our face.
I recoil. I can’t believe that just happened. What about the Hippocratic oath? Is that just a load of crap? I look at Yellow, expecting her to mirror my shock and disgust, but she just shakes her head with a sad expression on her face.
“Dr. Hatch!” I shout as I bang on the door with my fist. “Dr. Hatch, you open this door this instant! You are doing harm by refusing to help us.”
A few seconds later the door swings open again, and Dr. Hatch is back. He’s staring at me with squinted, angry eyes that I can look right into, seeing as he’s about an inch shorter than I am.
“I know what you are,” he spits. “The both of you. I don’t help common whores. I am a God-fearing man.”
My eyes get really big as the door slams in my face again. Did I just hear that right? Whores. This asshole just called me a whore.
I whip around to look at Yellow. “It’s because of how we’re dressed,” she says.
I know, and I don’t care. I reach for the doorknob and turn it. The door swings open into a living room. It practically bangs into the staircase. There’s a fire going in a fireplace across the room. Only a few wooden chairs and a dining table stand between me and Dr. Hatch. He jumps.
“What are you doing? Get out of my house!”
“We need your help,” I repeat, enunciating every word. “I know what you think of us, but you’re mistaken. We’re not . . . what you said we are. We’re just two lost girls from . . . from Philadelphia.”
I shouldn’t have said that. Philadelphia is a long way from Boston. How the hell would two young girls have made their way from Philly to Boston alone in the middle of the Revolutionary War? I’ve always been bad at lying on the fly. Those were my lowest Practical Studies grades.
“Philadelphia?” the doctor repeats with raised eyebrows.
“Yes, our fathers are in Boston . . . doing business . . . with . . .” I’m making this ten times worse. I should just shut up. But instead I try to rack my brain to think of anyone I can remember from history class who lived in Revolutionary Boston. “With Paul Revere!”
Yellow’s face scrunches up into a disgusted expression. Paul Revere? she mouths. And then she turns to the doctor. “Please, sir, I’m a good Christian girl myself.” She reaches into the neck of her shirt and pulls out a small gold cross. It’s dwarfed by the owl pendant lying on her chest.
“What’s that?” The doctor points to the Annum watch.
“A gift from my father.” She pops open the lid to reveal the watch face. The doctor’s eyes light up.
“I’ll stitch you up, but that’s my price. I want that as payment.”
“No way,” I scoff. “Give me a needle and thread, and I’ll do it myself.” This isn’t true. I would have no idea where to start. But I could try.
“Okay,” Yellow says. “I agree to your terms.”
I grab onto Yellow’s other arm. “Are you insane?”
But Yellow just slips the necklace over her head and hands it over. The doctor takes it in his hands, examines it, and closes his fist around it. “I’ll be right back.” Then he disappears through a door into a back room.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask Yellow.
She shrugs. “I’m done with this. Chronometric Augmentation. Annum Guard. I’m so sick of it. I’ve always thought I belonged in another time period, so why not here?”
I blink. And then I blink again. “You’re going to stay here? Permanently?”
“Why not?” Yellow says. “It’s . . . what is it, 1782? Maybe I’ll hop a boat over to England. The Regency period is going to start in a few years. I’ve always loved Jane Austen. Maybe I’ll live in a manor house and fall in love with an earl or something. It’ll be nice.”
My mouth drops open. I close it, but it drops open again. “Are you out of your goddamned mind? I should have known you were one of those girls who’s all into Jane Austen just because she read Pride and Prejudice in an English class, but ugh.”
And then Yellow’s face betrays her. She cracks a smile and laughs. “I’m joking, genius. Handing over the necklace was the quickest way to get him to stitch me up so we don’t waste any more time. Every hour we spend here is like four days. We need to get out, and soon. So while I’m getting stitched up, you go outside, sneak around back, break in, grab the necklace, and we’re gone. Got it?”
The door swings open, and Dr. Hatch is back. I stand there, shaking my head. I have to admit it. She got me good. Well played, Yellow. Well played. If I didn’t hate her so much, I think she and I might actually get along.
The doctor pulls out a flat tray that holds a needle as big as one you’d use for quilting and some stuff that looks like twine; and even though I’m not squeamish, looking at these downright primitive medical tools twists my stomach. I turn to Yellow, and she’s as white as a ghost. But then she makes eye contact with me and jerks her head toward the back door.
“I’m going to wait outside,” I say as the doctor picks up the needle. Yellow settles into one of the dining chairs and grits her teeth.
“Can’t stand the sight of blood, eh?” the doctor asks. He uncaps a plain glass bottle filled with amber liquid and hands it to Yellow.
“Something like that,” I mumble. I set the files and notebook on the table next to Yellow.
“Take a drink of that,” the doctor orders.
Yellow lifts it and eyes it. “What is it?”
“Whiskey. Strongest stuff I got. You’re going to need it.”
Yellow sets the bottle down on the table
, untouched. “I’ll be fine. Just fix my arm, please.”
The doctor presses the needle to Yellow’s arm, and I fly out the door. I shut it behind me, but the heavy wood does nothing to hide the scream that Yellow lets out. It starts small, as if she’s trying to hold back but builds into an “Ah-ah-aah-aah-AAH!” My heart sinks for her. This is not going to be pretty.
I rest my back against the brick exterior for just a second to collect my thoughts. Yellow lets out another scream from inside the house. I’m wasting time. I take off around the corner to the back of the house. There’s a window and a door. I try the door first, but it’s locked. Dammit. This is colonial America. Aren’t people supposed to be trusting?
Window it is. I try lifting the glass, but it doesn’t budge. And then I let out a disgusted grunt. God, I’m stupid. It’s 1782. Windows don’t slide open in 1782. I’m going to have to break it. But first I press my face to the glass and look in. I hear Yellow scream again as I stare into a small kitchen. There’s a fireplace that doubles as a stove, and several pewter spoons and brass pots hang on the wall. And that’s about it. Tiny. There’s also the narrowest staircase I’ve ever seen in the corner, leading up to the second floor.
I need to find something to wrap around my elbow to muffle the sound when I break the window. I look around, but there’s nothing. A few other houses line this cobblestone street, but no one’s left out a spare sheet of fabric so I can break into their neighbor’s house. Shocking. I wish I’d had the foresight to grab Yellow’s cashmere sweater, but I guess my old-lady house dress will have to do. I lift it over my head and immediately wrap it around my elbow.
Come on, Yellow, scream again. I’m standing here in a bra and nasty, old underwear. I’m sure they lock you up for stuff like this in colonial times.
“Ah-ah-aah-aah-AAH!”
I don’t hesitate. I slam my elbow into the glass, and it shatters. I do it again, clearing away an area where I can climb through without worrying about impaling myself on broken shards of glass. The last thing I need is to injure myself even worse.
I jump back and throw the dress over my head. One of the arms gets snagged on my elbow, and I yank so hard I’m surprised I don’t rip it. I stare at the window, then through it at the closed door leading into the front room. And then I hoist myself up and in through the window.
There’s glass all over the floor, so I can’t jump down. Instead I stay crouched in the window frame, my arms outstretched and plastered to the wall to keep my balance. I have to jump. I’m waiting for Yellow to scream again, hoping it’ll muffle whatever noise I’ll make. How long does it take to stitch up an arm?
But Yellow stays silent. I’m wasting time! I take a deep breath and go for it. I push off the balls of my feet and sail over the glass. I land on the balls of my feet, too, and sink my knees into a squat when I land; soft but not completely silent. There was a thump. I hold my breath and stare at the door. Was I too loud?
“Ah-ah-aah-aah-AAH!”
I jump. Straight up in the air. My heart hammers in my chest, and I reach up a hand and shove it against my breast, as if trying to keep it from escaping. I whip around and scan the small kitchen. I don’t see the necklace, and there aren’t a lot of hiding spots for Dr. Hatch to stash it. It’s not as if this is a fully stocked modern kitchen with twenty feet of cabinets. It’s barely bigger than a closet. The doctor must have taken the necklace upstairs.
The house is quiet as I put one toe on the corner of the first step. It doesn’t make a sound. So I lift off and put the toes of my other foot on the corner of the next step. Silence. I do this again, then again, going as slowly as I can. I only have a few steps to go when—
CREAK!
I shut my eyes. There’s always a creaky stair. Why is there always a creaky stair? I turn my head and stare down into the kitchen. That was loud. There’s no way the doctor didn’t hear that. He’s going to burst through that door any second now, and he’s going to catch me.
“Sarah!” the doctor’s voice calls out from the other room. “You get back in bed this instant!”
Sarah? Who the hell is Sarah? I whip my head back around and nearly fall. There’s a child standing at the top of the steps, staring at me. She can’t be more than four, and she’s as thin as a rail. A damp cloth nightgown clings to her skeletal frame, and stringy brown hair is plastered to her bright-red cheeks. A rash covers nearly every inch of skin that’s not hidden by the nightgown.
“Who are you?” she asks, her voice soft and weak. She’s sick, clearly. Sick with some kind of fever. I try to remember history. Scarlet fever? Yellow fever? Some other colored fever?
“Sarah!” the doctor’s voice booms.
“Answer your father,” I whisper to her. “I’m here to help you.” A pang of guilt surges through my heart as I lie to her.
“Yes, sir,” Sarah calls down the steps. Her voice is so weak, I’m not sure if Dr. Hatch even heard her. Then she turns and plods down the hallway. I follow after her.
Upstairs is a hallway with two doors on the right and another staircase at the end. And that’s it. Sarah walks into the first room. Her bedroom. It’s tiny, only slightly larger than the kitchen. There’s a little Sarah-size bed, and next to it is a wobbly, wooden table barely bigger than a stool. The table is filled with herbs and potions and all sorts of metal instruments that look even worse than the ones Dr. Hatch is now using on Yellow.
Sarah climbs into the bed, and I peer into one of the clay pots on the table. I pick it up, give it a whiff, and gag. It’s awful. It smells like rotting eggs.
“Who are you?” Sarah asks me again.
“I’m a nurse,” I lie as I set down the pot.
“What’s a nurse?” Death is on the tip of her tongue. The back is speckled with tiny white bumps resembling a strawberry.
“I’m here to help,” I repeat, and it’s in that moment that I realize it’s true. I have to help Sarah. This child is dying. But first I have to find Yellow’s necklace.
The necklace isn’t on the bedside table, and the only other piece of furniture is a small, closed armoire. If I had to guess, I’m going to say the doctor stashed it in his own room.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper to Sarah. “Lie down and be a good girl.”
She has no reason to obey me, but she does. She closes her eyes, and I realize that even holding them open was a chore for her. My heart does a flip. I wonder how long she’s been sick. I wonder how much longer she has. But then I shake my head. Necklace first.
“Ah-ah-aah-aah-AAH!”
I want to clamp my hands over my ears so I don’t have to hear Yellow. But I can’t. I creep back into the hallway and tiptoe to the second room. The door is shut, so I turn the knob slowly and carefully. What if someone else is in the room? What if the doctor has a wife?
When the door is cracked, I peek in. There’s a slightly bigger bed, and it’s made and empty. A small wooden cradle sits beside it. Also empty. I breathe a sigh of relief and swing it open a little wider. A dresser lines the wall with the door, and the necklace sits right there on the corner. I pick it up and slip it into the pocket of my dress. Well, that was easy. Although, really, how hard is it to find something in a sparsely furnished house that’s like five hundred square feet max?
I shut the door to the doctor’s bedroom and tiptoe back to Sarah’s room. She hears me enter and opens her eyes. They’re a mixture of sadness and fear and resignation. Sarah knows she’s dying, and my heart shatters. I need to help her, but I don’t know what I can do here in 1782.
“Am I going to die?” Sarah asks. She coughs, and her entire body shakes.
I don’t say anything.
“My mama died,” she whispers. “And so did Ben. My papa won’t say it, but I think I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m done,” the doctor’s voice says from the floor below.<
br />
Oh, not good.
“I’m going to get you medicine,” I whisper to Sarah as I glance into the bowl of herbs next to her bed. “Real medicine. It’s going to make you better.”
I hear the door to the kitchen open downstairs.
“What is this?” the doctor’s voice yells as he spots the broken window. “Sarah!” His feet land on the first step, and I fly out of the room, down the hallway, and into the other stairwell. I thump down the stairs.
“Who’s in here?” The doctor’s voice is now coming from the second floor.
Yellow is still sitting in the same chair, slumped back. Her face is white, and her breath reeks of whiskey. There’s a bucket on the floor that’s half full of vomit. I try not to gag as I pull Yellow’s necklace out of my pocket and spin the year dial two full turns. I toss it to Yellow, and she catches it.
“I set it,” I bark. “Go! Grab the files!”
I’m spinning my own dial as Yellow slips the necklace over her head and tucks the files into her waistband. She tries to stand but staggers backward and falls to the floor.
“The necklace!” the doctor roars from the second floor. “She stole it!”
His footsteps thunder down the stairs. I throw myself over Yellow, grab her pendant, and shut its lid a second before I shut mine.
Yellow and I are ripped through time. I hear Yellow scream. We land, and she stumbles back onto the street. She looks around, and familiarity crosses her face.
“When are we?”
“1894.” I drop my head, grab Yellow’s hand, and pull her into an alley as a policeman rounds the corner, swinging a nightclub.
Yellow looks up at a redbrick building that casts a shadow over us, then leans her back into it and sinks onto the ground. “This is my time.”
“Excuse me?”
“My time,” she says. “My time period. We’re all assigned different eras that we specialize in. I’m the late-nineteenth century. I feel at home here.”
“Except that we’re not staying.” I hold down my hand to help Yellow to her feet, but she doesn’t take it. “Every hour we stay here is like, what?”
The Eighth Guardian (Annum Guard) Page 21