“Where else in your wretched town could put us up outside a hayloft?” Hunt snapped.
Jane went very still.
Hunt immediately looked contrite, but she squared her shoulders and shoved both of her hands into her trouser pockets. “You’re a rational woman,” she said, not quite meeting Jane’s eyes. “You understand logistics.”
“I do. But what of Augustine?”
“What of him?” Hunt asked, a muscle in her jaw twitching. “He was very clear last night. He wanted us out.”
“He wanted warning.”
“He’s right,” she said, abruptly moving again, scooping up her bag. “About the magic, about everything. It’s time we moved on; he clearly has already made his choice. He can keep his rotting mansion and his provincial practice.”
Jane should have responded, but she was frozen with anger. She was furious on Augustine’s behalf, then disgusted with herself in the next heartbeat.
“Come,” Hunt said without looking back, “we’ll drop you at the surgery. You shouldn’t remain in this place.”
No.
The vehemence of the thought surprised her. She wanted to leave this place, wanted to rest, wanted to feel safe. But she was not prepared to see Augustine, not prepared to ask questions she did not want to hear the answers to. Her disgust would overwhelm her. Her fear would overrun all reasonable thought.
And she did not think she could manage the carriage ride back to town without strangling Hunt.
“I’ll remain,” Jane said stiffly. “As you said, I understand logistics. I need to help my household recover from your invasion.”
The words were more bitter than she had intended, but Hunt seemed to shoulder them without a flinch. Already written off, already relegated to a box that read, unpleasant host, unpleasant locale.
The other doctors left with tipped hats, or brief, polite commentary, or nothing at all. Finally, as the carriages began to roll away one by one, she made her way back to the sitting room and began righting the furniture. It was Mrs. Purl’s job, and she was far too violent with the carved wood, but the movement helped vent her frustration.
It was two minutes later when she realized Dr. Nizamiev sat at the desk.
“Do you plan to stay, then?” Jane asked, voice rough.
“No.”
Jane felt nothing, and so much at once that it could only be perceived as nothing. “Then please, leave me.”
Dr. Nizamiev rose and held out a small package, wrapped in crisp, thin paper. It contained several thick photographic printings.
“Take these,” Dr. Nizamiev said.
Jane hesitated, then took the package, sliding the first out.
In the photo was a young man lying on a cot, staring at the ceiling. He looked like any other patient, or any other fresh corpse. Jane looked up at Dr. Nizamiev, confused.
“A magician,” Dr. Nizamiev explained. “He was delivered to me in the dead of night with a note pinned to his shirt. It was brief, but it said he had participated in a ritual intended to summon what he called a demon. It went wrong, whatever happened, and he hasn’t moved once in the three years he has been in my care.”
“Dr. Nizamiev—”
“There exists a whole floor of my hospital that is for those patients with unique ailments.”
Jane turned to the next photo, this one of a woman who wept bitterly as she clawed at her face, her skin protected by the thick leather mitts strapped over her hands.
“Magicians or suspected magicians,” Dr. Nizamiev continued. “I fund their care, and in turn, I observe them. From what I have seen, Mrs. Lawrence, all magic eventually leads to ruin. Every magician will reach a point where they harm themselves or others. And when they do, they can rarely be rehabilitated.”
“Monstrous,” Jane whispered, thinking of Mr. Renton, of his twisted bowel. “It is monstrous, to lock them away.”
Dr. Nizamiev made no response, clearly unbothered.
“Our patient. If he had lived, would he have…？”
“Perhaps,” Dr. Nizamiev said.
“He clawed his belly open,” Jane said. “His flesh had distorted.”
“Then you have seen firsthand the risks. Very few magicians know about this. All who do think they’re different, special.”
“Dr. Hunt? Dr. Vingh?”
“Have both seen my patients in person. They fall into the arrogant category, instead of the ignorant. Your Dr. Lawrence, as well, up until recently.”
“I have no intention of ever attempting magic, if that is your concern.”