Though some of my fellow professionals in Edinburgh operate by nefarious measures, engaging the illegal services of so-called resurrection men stealing the bodies of innocents, subjects provided to my students at my anatomical school in Edinburgh are always the unfortunate men and women who suffer the hangman’s noose, whom British law dictates are inclined to provide one last service to their fellow countrymen as final penance.
1
THE FROG WAS DEAD, THERE WAS no doubt about that. It had been dead already when Hazel Sinnett found it. She was taking her daily stroll after breakfast, and the frog had just been there, lying on the garden path, on its back as though it had been trying to sunbathe.
Hazel couldn’t believe her luck. A frog, just lying there. An offering. A sign from the heavens. The sky was heavy with gray clouds threatening a rain that hadn’t arrived yet. In other words: the weather was perfect. But the conditions wouldn’t last long. As soon as the rain started to fall, her experiment would be ruined.
From behind the azalea bushes, Hazel looked around to see if anyone was watching her （her mother wasn’t looking out her bedroom window on the second floor, was she?） before she knelt down and casually wrapped the frog in her handkerchief to tuck into the waistband of her petticoat.
The clouds were approaching. Time was limited, and so Hazel cut her walk short and turned around to head swiftly back to Hawthornden Castle. She would go in the back way, so no one would bother her and she would be able slip up to her bedroom immediately.
The kitchen was hot when Hazel entered in a rush, with great clouds of steam burping from the iron pot on the fire and the thick smell of onions clinging to every surface. An abandoned onion lay half chopped on a board. The onion, the board, and a dropped knife nearby on the floor were splattered with blood. Hazel’s eyes followed the trail of red to see Cook sitting on a stool in the corner of the kitchen by the fire, cradling a hand and rocking back and forth, cooing to herself.
“Oh!” Cook cried when she saw Hazel. Her red face was damp with tears and redder than usual. Cook wiped at her eyes and stood, trying to smooth her skirts. “Miss, didn’t expect you down here. Just—resting my aching legs.” Cook attempted to hide her hand behind her apron.
“Oh, Cook. You’re bleeding!” Hazel reached out to coax Cook’s injured hand forth. She gave half a thought to the frog squelching in her petticoat and the looming rainstorm, but only for a moment. She had to focus on the case at hand. “Here, let me.”
Cook winced. The cut was deep, along the meaty palm of the base of her well-callused hand.
Hazel wiped her own hands on her skirts then looked up to give Cook a small, comforting smile. “This isn’t going to be bad at all. You’ll be right as rain before supper. You, there”—Hazel called to a scullery maid—“Susan, is it? Will you fetch me a sewing needle?” The mousy maid nodded and scampered off.
Hazel took the kitchen basin over to Cook and had her wash her injured hand and wipe it clean on a dishrag. As the blood and soot fell away, the deep cut came into clear focus. “Now, that’s not so scary once the blood is washed away,” Hazel said.
Susan returned with the needle. Hazel held it in the fire until it turned black, and then she lifted her own skirt and pulled a long silk thread from her chemise.
Cook gave a small cry. “Your fine things, miss!”
“Oh, pishposh. It’s nothing, Cook, truly. Now, I’m afraid this might sting just a bit. Are you all right?” Cook nodded. Working as quickly as she could, Hazel slid the needle into Cook’s split palm and began to sew up the cut tight with sutures. The color drained from Cook’s face, and she clenched her eyes.
“Almost there—nearly done now—aaaaand there,” Hazel said, tying the silk into a neat knot. She tore the thread with her teeth. She couldn’t help but smile while examining her work: tiny, neat, even stitches that finally put her childhood of mind-numbingly boring embroidery practice to good use. Hazel lifted her skirts again—carefully, so as not to disturb the frog—and tore a thick ribbon of fabric from her chemise before Cook could object or cry out in shock at further damage to it. Hazel wrapped the fabric tightly around the newly stitched hand. “Now, then: remove the bandage tonight and wash the wound, if you would. I’ll be by tomorrow with a poultice for you. And be careful with the knife, Cook.”
Cook’s eyes were still wet, but she smiled up at Hazel. “Thank you, miss.”
Hazel made it up to her bedroom without any other disturbances, and she raced out onto her balcony. The sky was still gray. Rain hadn’t fallen yet. Hazel exhaled and pulled the frog in its handkerchief from her skirts. She unfurled it and let it flop with a wet squelch onto the stone banister.