Augustine stayed every night at the surgery, and did not sicken. It was more a relief to her than to him; he barely seemed to remember what had gone before, though he could talk endlessly of his days at university. He skimmed over the memories of his games with Hunt’s eating club of magicians, but told her all about Elodie, about his family, about his joys and losses before everything had come undone.
She could only track perhaps half of what he said at first, but with every day, she grew stronger. Her wound did not become infected. In fact, it healed faster than it should have, though it promised to scar in the process.
Nearly a week after she had died, Jane sat propped up in bed, reading a text on pharmaceuticals, their origins and compounding formulae. Below, Augustine met with patients. Outside the sun drew low, though there was still at least an hour left before dark. With each dusk and dawn, the memory of half-formed talons scraping down her throat retreated a little more.
From the road came the sound of carriage wheels, closer than usual. She tensed, reading forgotten, anticipating some disaster, but there was no screaming when the door below opened.
And then Dr. Avdotya Semyonovna Nizamiev appeared in her doorway.
She was much the same as Jane had last seen her: slight, dark-haired, sharp-featured, and entirely focused on Jane. She did not wait to be invited in, but came to Jane’s bedside without introduction.
“Where is my husband?” Jane asked. She was not ready for this meeting.
“With a patient, downstairs,” Dr. Nizamiev replied, settling into the chair Augustine had placed at her bedside.
“Did he send for you?”
“No. Your housekeeper wrote to me after you threw her out of Lindridge Hall. She said she found you naked, covered in filth, at which point you fired her. And that when she came to fetch you to a doctor, you screamed about having killed your husband.”
Jane flinched with embarrassment. She glanced at the doorway, half expecting to see orderlies waiting to swoop down upon her, but to all appearances, Dr. Nizamiev was alone.
“Not exactly,” Jane said. “But I understand why she was distressed. It was a trying time.”
She expected Dr. Nizamiev to understand, to cite the ritual steps she had sent to Jane, to ask how things had gone.
The woman withdrew a small notebook instead.
“And why was that?” She was the solicitous doctor, searching for symptoms, arranging a diagnosis.
“I was grieving,” Jane said, confused. “And ill. Dr. Lawrence has explained that such a growth as I had places an inordinate amount of stress on one’s faculties.” Along with the lack of sleep, the lack of food, the constant focus required of the working. Surely Dr. Nizamiev understood that.
“Grief can certainly perturb the mind.” She scrawled a few lines, and Jane realized, with creeping discomfort, that she spoke in a different tone from the one she had the last time they met. Then, Dr. Nizamiev had been sharp, engaged, didactic.
Now she sounded like she was only humoring Jane. She made no mention of her own contributions, of the excerpt from The Doctrine of Seven, of her warnings and guidance.
“That night at Lindridge Hall,” Jane ventured warily. “You made me promise to accept everything you told me.” And when she had repeated it to her husband, he had remembered to believe in magic. It had unlocked something in him.
It was intentional, echoed Renton’s voice.
Dr. Nizamiev gazed back, placid. “Did I?”
Jane’s heart gave a sideways lurch. She remembered that conversation with piercing clarity, more than all that came after.
She weighed her words carefully. It would be better not to press, not when everything behind her now felt like shifting sand. But she could not bear not to know, not after everything that had happened.
“You’re not just a doctor, are you?” Jane whispered.
“I am many things besides my profession. You will have to be more specific, Mrs. Lawrence.”
“You told me you were not a sorceress.”
“And I am not.”
Her throat was dry. Her belly clenched with frustration and fear.
“Is it a matter of semantics? Do I only have to guess the right word? Are you—” She cut herself off, clutching at the counterpane. She must not show distress or agitation. One deep breath steadied her, and then she asked, “You do not play games with Dr. Hunt and the others, but do you—do you believe that magic is possible?”
“If it were, it would hardly be a matter of belief,” Dr. Nizamiev responded.
True, but in what direction?