The Corpse Queen

by Heather M. Herrman

  Instead, she lifted them to Tom’s lips and almost touched them before pulling away, a moth brushing too close to the flames.

  She’d never kissed a boy.

  She waited for a kiss now, eyes closed, lips as unsteady as a seed’s first green, unsure if in the rain it would flower or be completely washed away.

  Instead, Tom leaned past her lips to her ear.

  “When I kiss you, it will be because you asked.”

  His whisper raised the hairs up and down her neck, like an electric shock.

  Then the warmth disappeared, replaced only by the night, its cold as sudden as breaking through the crust of an icy river. Molly felt the carriage tremble to life beneath her, and when she opened her eyes, they were rushing through the streets again, everything the same as it had ever been.

  So that she almost wondered if any of it—the whip, the jigsaw puzzle, Tom—had ever happened at all.

  22

  When she opened the front door a few hours past midnight, her aunt was waiting, James Chambers beside her.

  “Where have you been?” Ava’s voice was tight.

  Molly’s cheeks flushed, and she checked to make sure her coat was buttoned. “Nowhere. I—”

  “Get inside. Now.” Her aunt’s usually tidy hair had fallen in tangles about her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Go! James, take her with you.”

  He nodded and hurried away, leaving Molly to scramble in confusion after him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The church.” His voice was cold. Formal.

  “Why?”

  “The doctor will tell you.”

  She had no choice but to follow, rushing back into the freezing air, then mounting the church steps behind him.

  All the pews were empty, but half a dozen men circled the same table on which the man with a pig’s head had jolted to life just days ago.

  Dr. LaValle stood at their center.

  “Molly.” He lifted his head. His voice was warm, welcoming, as if they were long-lost friends. “Thank you for coming.”

  A girl’s body lay on the center table, her skin so flawless it might have been carved of marble. Deep-purple circles, like bruises, ringed her closed eyes, and her stomach mounded with unborn child.

  It was a good body, Molly noted. Fresh. She reached out to touch it.

  The eyes flashed open, and Molly stumbled backward as the corpse raised its head in a long, low scream.

  “She’s in labor,” Dr. LaValle said calmly. “But she refused to let us touch her without another woman present.”

  “What about my aunt?”

  The doctor frowned. “She declined.”

  The girl’s frantic stare found Molly, and with a terrified whimper, she reached for her.

  Before she could change her mind, Molly caught the searching hand. It was as cold as any pulled from a tomb. The girl’s head slumped back to the table, eyes fluttering closed. Dr. LaValle used his fingers to pull open her right eyelid.

  “Gentlemen, observe.”

  The group of men shuffled closer.

  “The body’s eyes have a distinctly pink rim. This is a sign of anemia. Likely brought on by inadequate nutrition.”

  The girl began to pant heavily.

  “She’s not a body,” Molly said. “She’s a girl.”

  “I wonder, sir,” a young man ventured, “whether it might be wise to—”

  “What’s her name?” Molly demanded, acutely aware of the shrill tone of her voice. But it might have been Kitty there, frightened for the child in her womb. The others glared, irritated at the interruption. “What’s her name, for God’s sake?” Molly repeated.

  “Jane.” A student with a face so heavily freckled it looked like someone had spilled paint across it stepped forward. He seemed more rattled than the others, nervously tugging at the untucked edge of his shirt.

  Molly leaned close, making sure the girl could see her. “Hello, Jane,” she whispered. “I’m Molly.”

  “The baby is in a breech position.” Dr. LaValle spoke with icy calm. “She’s not going to live.”

  Jane’s eyes widened in panic as she began to scream again.

  The students, far from seeming unnerved, leaned closer once more.

  And suddenly, Molly understood. For these men, it was not a human on the table; it was a show—as entertaining as anything they might find at the Red Carousel.

  Edgar White wheeled a small dissection tray closer. On it lay a row of sparkling knives. He held one up to the doctor. “Will this work for the incision?”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Molly.” James Chambers laid a gentle hand on her arm. “It’s the girl or the baby. A doctor’s duty is to save the child.”

  “Are you insane?” Molly looked at him, horrified. “You mean to tell me that you are going to kill her?”

  The men stared at Molly as if she were as much of a show as the girl.

  “Help me,” Jane screamed. “Oh God, get it out!”

  “Hush, now.” The doctor stepped forward holding a cloth in one hand and pressed it gently against Jane’s nose.

  Her feet kicked up in a weak protest.

  “What is that?” Molly asked.

  “Chloroform,” Dr. LaValle said. “Dr. John Snow used it on Queen Victoria herself during her labor. It will help her sleep.”

  As if to prove his point, the girl sank back limply against the table.

  Edgar held up the knife.

  A wave of helplessness overwhelmed Molly. She felt as if she’d been thrown between the mashing gears of a machine already in motion. More than anything, she wished she could be back outside the bar, Tom’s strong arms wrapped around her.

  “Please,” she said, turning to James. “There has to be something . . .”

  “Attend the incision,” Dr. LaValle said. “Keep the pressure firm but light.”

  “Oh God.” Molly turned and hid her head. “No. No, no, no . . .”

  “There may be a smell,” Dr. LaValle said, pausing. He reached into his vest pocket and brought out a silver tin. Opening it, he retrieved a small green candy and popped it into his mouth, passing the tin to the others.

  The overwhelming scent of peppermint flooded the room.

  Edgar raised the knife and plunged it awkwardly into the girl’s belly. A small bead of blood appeared.

  Molly squinted her eyes tightly closed and tried to summon some of Ava’s strength.

  Open your eyes.

  It was not Ava’s voice that spoke, but Kitty’s.

  Think, Molly. Remember.

  The mint smell eased, covered with the thicker scent of remembered smoke.

  The scent, heavy and acrid, tugged at her. Where had she smelled it before?

  Smoke and wool and blood . . .

  Suddenly, the memory came, fully formed. She and Kitty in the orphanage’s barn, tasked with helping one of the sheep give birth. It had been freezing, so they’d made a small bonfire, placing the ewe’s panting body in front of it to keep her warm. An old nun had helped them, a midwife before she’d taken the vows, whose mind had gone soft. But she had remembered enough.

  “Wait!” Molly shoved aside a student.

  Edgar paused, his knife halfway down a jagged slit in the girl’s belly. Blood rushed along the edges. The cut was clumsy. Far too clumsy to have made the neat slice on Kitty’s flesh.

  “Stop! I think I can help her.”

  “I’ve already told you,” said Dr. LaValle. “There is no helping.”

  “I want to try to turn the baby,” Molly rushed on. “I’ve done it before.” A small lie, in the face of things.

  His eyes slitted. “And if the baby dies?”

  “Let me have a chance! If I can’t do it, you can continue
as you were. Please.” Heat filled her face.

  “Dr. LaValle.” Edgar shoved a lock of dank hair out of his face. “It’s my patient!”

  “No, it was your patient. Now it’s the girl’s.” The doctor gave Molly a curious stare. “Go on.”

  She hesitated for only a second, staring at the trickle of blood forming fat and glistening on the girl’s belly. If she didn’t act soon, the girl would die.

  “James.” Molly called out the only student’s name she knew besides Edgar’s. “I’ll want your help.”

  She’d expected a protest, but James stepped immediately forward. “What do you need?”

  Molly studied the cut. The blood flowed more freely now. It would make everything too slippery. “The wound. Is there dressing, or . . . ?” She looked around, frustrated, angry at her lack of any classroom knowledge that these men would trust. “We need the blood to stop flowing.”

  Without hesitating, James pulled a long needle from the dissection tray. In swift, sure movements, he threaded it with twine, stabbing the silver tip onto the left side of the cut. Molly forced herself to watch as, with stitches neater than any she’d seen in the ladies’ sewing circle, he sutured it closed.

  “What now?” He stepped back, blood dripping from his hands.

  “Approach the left side of her abdomen. We’ll want to watch for the appendix. It can be enlarged.”

  The words from her textbook fell awkwardly from her lips, but she said them anyway.

  She was in a room full of medical students. If she wanted them to take her seriously, she knew she had to speak their language.

  James moved back to stand above the girl’s swollen belly.

  “I’m going to reach from inside,” Molly said. “Try to lift the baby’s rump. I’ll need you to find the head and push it as I do. Counterclockwise.”

  James laid his hands on the large mound of white skin and began to knead. “I’ve located the skull.”

  The men had thrown a sheet over the girl’s legs so that they could cut her without having to look at what was between them.

  Molly threw it off.

  Gently, she reached her hand into the thick mess of curls and blood.

  Her fingertips felt flesh immediately, just a few inches up, slick and hard. She thought it was an elbow or a heel. Biting her lip to still its tremor, Molly pushed, just as the nun had shown her to do with the lamb.

  On the table, Jane groaned, stirring in her unconsciousness. The student with freckles reached out a hand and anxiously touched her forehead.

  Molly pushed again, but the baby would not move.

  “Her pulse is weakening,” Dr. LaValle said matter-of-factly, dropping the girl’s wrist.

  Molly gritted her teeth and looked up at James. “Do you still have the head?” she asked.

  James nodded.

  “Good. We’ll push on three. Ready?”

  He hesitated. “Molly, we can still—”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “One . . . two . . . three!”

  Molly shoved up and felt the tiny rump nudge free of the bone at the same time as James pushed the head forward. “We’ve moved it!” Molly said, her voice high. “We’ve moved it! We’re doing it, James!”

  Sliding her hand out, she hurried to the girl’s left side and prodded the belly. “There! It’s turning. Keep pushing!”

  Together they worked the girl’s belly like dough, gently turning the child. In ten minutes, it was done, and Molly moved back between the girl’s legs.

  There was more blood than seemed reasonable. Far more than there’d been with the lamb.

  The baby’s head crowned.

  “Oh my God, it’s here! It’s here!” The rest of the room lost focus so that all Molly saw was the bloody globe working forward as the mother’s contractions overtook her.

  Slowly, the lips of the girl’s vulva bloomed around the head, and a thick mass of black hair emerged.

  It was completely different from the anatomy books. Here was blood and hair and slick-jeweled flesh, where on the page had been only stark, dull lines.

  Molly wanted to paint each instant so that when it was over, she could see it again, overlay its pulsing truth over the flat, two-dimensional paucity of text.

  The head grew larger, and Molly felt the pain of the mother as, even in her unconscious state, she writhed on the table. To be stretched so fully must be an unbearable task.

  Blood and other liquids lubricated the head through, so that now there was an eye, a nose, a mouth. And then the shoulders came.

  But, oh, how could anyone bear such a tearing, breaking thing?

  The child passed into the world bringing a tail of umbilical cord, and Molly felt herself gently nudged aside by James as he stepped in and began to wipe the tiny nose and eyes, clearing away the gunk.

  The baby opened its mouth and cried. It was the most beautiful sound Molly had ever heard.

  She stumbled forward, taking it from James as he clamped off the cord. Around her, the other doctors began cheering.

  “Let the mother see!” Molly said, triumphant. Her mind, which had been muddied from the Red Carousel’s liquor, was completely clear now, sobered by the immense gravity of the situation. She had never felt anything like this thrill. Holding the child—the life that she had pulled out of another human—the miracle of it, the sheer horror and wonder, overwhelmed her.

  There was nothing Molly wanted more than to lay the sweet infant’s skin against its mother’s. Because it was not just the child’s mother there, but Kitty. Kitty, to whom Molly held out the screaming child. Kitty, to whose breast she pressed the baby for comfort.

  Kitty, who did not move.

  Not even at the cry of her own child. Eyes wide and hazel, Jane stared at nothing.

  Above the girl’s head, the freckled student stooped low. He reached out and, with a careful flick of his hand, ran it across the now-smooth forehead.

  “She’s dead,” he said, and that was all that there was, all that there would ever be.

  The squalling, motherless child in her arms, begging for a breast to which it could not latch, woke something in Molly’s own.

  Something fierce and bright and unbreakable.

  And as she handed the creature, still screaming, to the freckle-faced student who held out his arms for it, as she gave it away as she might give away a part of herself, Molly understood.

  She could not go on as before. Like the lepidoptera, moving from one molting phase to the next, she felt the very cells of her body dissolving, knitting themselves into something new.

  Because she was who she had always been, but something else too—Mistress Molly and Lady Molly, and Molly who had held new life.

  She was all of them and more. So much more.

  And bringing the dead up from the earth was no longer enough.

  There’s a boy come in today who says he’s a doctor. Only a few years older than me and studying at the university. He looks different, but he stares at me that same way you did—hungry—and I think maybe I can use that hunger.

  He blushes when he runs his hands over my body. They’ve taken me to a separate room for this, hung a curtain between it and the sickbed on the other side, where an old crone lies dying. I perch prettily on a chair’s edge, hands folded in my lap.

  He likes to poke and prod at my mind, as if there is some secret buried there.

  “How did you kill him?” he asks me over and over again.

  I tell him many things, but never the truth.

  It doesn’t matter. He listens with his mouth hung open like a fish, eyes silver with lust at the thought of all the dark things inside me.

  “Someone like you could do anything,” he says, marveling.

  He picks up my hand and looks at the nails, short from scratching at th
e walls, the tips bloody. I wonder if he is imagining the blood is yours.

  “I bet you could do just anything,” he says again.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “I can.”

  And like an apple seed, I plant the thought deep in his mind. Cover it with dirt and watch it root.

  Part III

  23

  No.” Ava sat calmly at the breakfast table, her hair neatly coiffed, as if it had never been mussed at all. Only the slight shaking of her hand betrayed that anything unusual might have happened last night. Outside, the late February wind whipped against the kitchen window.

  Molly lifted a piece of bacon distractedly to her lips, but the smell of its gelatinous fat was too much. She threw it back onto the plate.

  “Why not?” Molly said.

  “Because girls don’t become surgeons. It isn’t done.”

  “I don’t care what’s done. I care what I’m going to do!”

  Watching Edgar’s incompetence in the operating theater last night had erased any lingering doubt. He had not killed Kitty. The hand that had sliced away her friend’s tail was far too skilled.

  A fury burned low in her belly, but there was a calm now too.

  No one except she and Edgar had ever seen Kitty’s tail. Which meant that whoever had stolen it had learned about it from him. Edgar certainly seemed the type to brag about the anomaly to his friends. Whether one of the medical students in his circle could actually be the Knifeman or was simply a poor student who had leaked the information for payment to someone like the Tooth Fairy, Molly didn’t know. But if she wanted to find out, she’d need to stop standing at the doorstep of men with blades and step inside with a knife of her own.

  “Those students are idiots, the lot of them,” she said, thinking of the way they’d dragged the dead mother’s body down the stairs to be used later for a lecture with as little compunction as they might remove a ruined mattress to the cellar to be cut apart for its feathers.

  “LaValle bringing that girl here was dangerous.” Ava frowned. “Helping the living always is. But it’s a fine thing those boys had such an experience.” She buttered a fresh piece of toast, drizzling honey over it. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how rare it is for students so early in their training to have an actual surgical patient to attend. They’ll be much better prepared for their paying customers.”