* * *
THAT NIGHT, AGAINST her better instincts, she penned a letter to Dr. Nizamiev. She asked for guidance and help for Augustine. Anything she knew about how to avoid ending up floating in the air, how to touch magic without being seized by its impossibility. She’d seen the hunger in Augustine’s eyes that morning when he thought she had worked magic. What else did he hunger for, what else did he wish were different? Just the smallest offer of help might be enough to push Augustine toward attempting to set things right, if it was specific, if it was actionable.
The letter went out at first light, shortly before Augustine returned from Lindridge Hall, looking just as haggard, just as drawn. He took his dose of cocaine once more and tended his patients with less than his full focus, his full brilliance. His hands trembled. He dropped tools, forgot patients were waiting for him back in the kitchen, talked rapidly to himself about theories and frustrations. It was only by dint of his inherent need to heal and his long training that he managed at all.
Jane watched, and she helped, and she waited, hoping that a response from Camhurst would arrive with the evening post.
It didn’t. Augustine did, however, ask her to measure out laudanum for him, that he might sleep through the night. She hoped it would help.
His carriage left as the sun set, and Jane took thickened broth up to Augustine’s room, where Abigail now rested. She had woken up that morning, addled and in pain, but able to recognize her name. Her color was improving, her limbs warming on their own. Halfway through the day, Jane and Mr. Lowell had moved her at Augustine’s suggestion.
Abigail stirred only enough to swallow her broth without aid, then fell into a light sleep, brow furrowed but cheeks pink. Jane left the bedroom door open and paced the hallway, scrubbing her face. Augustine’s salvation was not her responsibility. She repeated that to herself over and over, but she couldn’t shift the weight that had settled onto her shoulders when she saw him with his patients. Should she tell him to quit the surgery entirely? Let Larrenton find a new doctor, retreat to Lindridge Hall to live out the rest of his life, tormented until the last? Then, at least, the sick and injured and dying of Larrenton would be sent a new, more reliable steward. But what a monstrous choice to make, and how terrible that he might agree to it.
Her pacing took her to the door of the study. Inside, hoarded curiosities lined the shelves; how many were silent eulogies to dead magicians? Did they all serve as a constant reminder of the punishment he had earned?
Her hand was halfway to the knob when frantic knocking filled the surgery.
She pulled away as if singed and flew down to the foyer. “Mr. Lowell!” she called out. “Mr. Lowell, come quick!”
But she heard no other footsteps. She was alone; Mr. Lowell was out visiting his family. He wouldn’t be back for another hour at least, perhaps many more.
It was only her.
She hauled open the front door, expecting carnage, a crushed limb, a pock-skinned child, but it was only a man and a woman, frantic but whole. “It’s her son,” the man said. “Illness. Wretched illness. She wanted to wait until morning, but he can’t be moved, and he can’t see. He’s vomiting something horrible. Please, is the doctor in?”
Jane straightened up as much as she could. “He is out,” she said. The woman wailed, and the man swore. Jane hesitated only a moment before saying, “But I can fetch him. Where is the patient, please?”
They gave her directions to their farm as she dragged on her traveling cloak and hat. “Stay here an hour more, if you can,” she told them, mind racing. “Rest, eat something. The doctor’s other assistant will be back, and he can accompany you to the farm, to see what he can do.”
They nodded, and she bundled them into the kitchen, setting the kettle on for them. Her nerves were on fire, alive and roaring, and she rushed up the stairs to check on Abigail as well. She slept soundly now, deeply, and Jane felt almost confident as she raced from the surgery and fetched the neighbor who took Augustine to and from Lindridge Hall and paid him extra to drive out once more.
She had vowed to never again step foot in Lindridge Hall, for a hundred different reasons, but there was no other option. A life hung in the balance, and what was her fear to that?
The road was dry, and they made good time out of town and up into the hills. Even in the warmth of the box, she clutched her cloak tight to her, wondering what she would find. Would Augustine be conscious still, or in a drugged stupor? Would the spirits be at work? Would they leap upon her the moment she crossed the threshold?