The clangor of the alarm bell cut through the list of
needed supplies that Dr Darius Vonken had been making in his mind. Breaking
into a run, he rounded the corner, expecting to have to chase the damned crabs
away from the clinic again – Third time
this year! Blast it, why don’t they install wards as I advised up there? –
but instead confronted a more immediate crisis in the street: a young woman in
black frantically swung a cane at a group of glittering black Cryptolithodes nigerus letus. The crabs
clattered their claws uncertainly, but would certainly charge her in an instant.
Vonken ran at them, thrusting forward his Coldspark talent like an aetheric net
straight into their mass. The lead row toppled, but an hundred more surged
forward. The young woman screamed, desperately slapping two of them with the
cane, but her best effort only knocked them into their fellows pressing up from
behind. Vonken dropped his doctor’s satchel, sucking in a breath sharply as he
drew the Dust-energy of the horde of crabs into himself. It felt tainted, and
salt and grime overwhelmed his thoughts as much as if he’d been able to smell
them physically. Grimacing, he shouted, “Out
of the way!” The woman turned, and he felt a moment of shock, of
recognition, of anger; but then she dove to one side. Vonken threw the gathered
energy at the crabs. Two or three dozen of them bowled over, carapaces
shattering against the cobbles, legs crunching, high-pitched screeees making him wince.
The remainder of the horde milled about, not sure what
had just happened, beginning to grow dazed as their gills slowly dried. Not fast enough, Vonken thought, and
gestured at the street, the buildings, trying to draw in any speck of
Dust-caused energy anywhere in the vicinity. He swept his arms toward his
chest, conscious of the scant resources in this poor street; the river behind
them certainly had more power to offer, but he was loathe to gather that
poisoned sludge into his body. Especially this
body. He’d worked too hard to ruin this over a simple crustacean attack!
Irritated, he saw the crabs regrouping; all that could stand were orienting on
him...and on the young woman who’d scrambled to her feet behind him.
“I need your energy,” he snapped at her. Holly Autumnson
stared at him as if he’d spoken gibberish. He beckoned impatiently. “If you
want to continue life with all your natural
limbs, let me take it!” She looked from the clicking, lunging crabs to him, and
quickly nodded.
Vonken reached into her with his mind, ignoring the swirl
of emotion he found. Emotions distracted. Roughly he yanked out the power he
found coiled in her core, surprised at the amount of it. Every person alive had
a small inner reservoir of Dust-caused energy, but all save his fellow
Coldsparks had no idea how to use it, much less any awareness of its existence.
Miss Autumnson, however, possessed an abundance of it. He stopped himself from
speculating on whether her brother’s ventures had contaminated her with Dust
more than other residents of Concordia; time for that later. No finesse
involved: he sucked up every bit of it and spewed it in a roar at the charging
crabs.
Black, spiny limbs exploded in all directions. Stinking,
sticky ichor splashed the nearby buildings, the front of Rumbaker’s especially.
The ringing in his ears wasn’t quite loud enough to mask the clunks of
shattered shells raining back down to the street. Vonken caught his breath, his
pulse hammering, restraining the urge to expel the scones and cream he’d had
for breakfast. He surveyed the carnage, checking to make sure nothing moved. To
his dismay, he saw Miss Autumnson wasn’t moving either; she slumped just behind
him in the street, unconscious. He wrapped his arms under hers and gently
lifted her up, and she groaned, her head lolling, a long lock of soft dark hair
slipping free of its pins.
“Oh for Dagon’s sake, Vonken!” Vonken looked over at the
factory foreman standing disgustedly at the edge of the exploded crabs. “Didja
really have to do that?”
Vonken replied curtly, forcing strength into his voice
although it was hoarse after his bellow at the attacking monsters. “I have warned
you more than once, Flanagan. Keep your blasted crabs in your factory, else I
shall be forced to blast them!” He turned away as more of the workers crowded
through the door, gaping and exclaiming at the ruin of so much of their supply.
Miss Autumnson still wasn’t coming around. Vonken sighed, regretting his hasty
decision to use all her power; the
poor girl was going to have a devil of a headache. He didn’t feel too cheery,
himself. Stolidly ignoring the cursing going on in the vicinity of the factory,
he lifted the young lady against his chest and carried her carefully inside the
clinic.
The nurse, one of the first constructs he’d built when he
arrived in Concordia, made fussy motions as Vonken laid Miss Autumnson on the
patients’ couch. Though it was no longer able to speak, it loosened the young
lady’s corset and drew a warm blanket up to her pointed chin. “She fainted,”
Vonken explained. He set his tall black hat upon a stand just inside the room,
and opened his depleted physician’s satchel. “When she comes to, give her some
of the willowbark tincture and send her home. Call the Watch for an escort.”
The automaton nodded her copper head, at once moving to the pharmacy cabinet to
retrieve a small phial of the tincture. Vonken looked through the boxes of
supplies he’d brought down this morning from the hospital. “Blast it...Ratchet,
have you seen the mercurous chloride? That idiot Calleux has got himself
another case of French gout!” He stopped rummaging when the tall, rusting
construct creaked over to him, holding out the very bottle he needed. “Ah.
Thank you. Ever organized, my dear.” The greenlit eyes of the nurse flashed at him,
meaning she was pleased with his compliment.
He’d built this first assistant along humanoid lines, and
taught her manners and restraint; efficiency and a love of order she had
developed on her own. He’d been forced to cannibalize her voice-box a couple of
years back during a particularly trying time, needing the speech capability
elsewhere, but Ratchet didn’t seem to mind being mute. He’d been promising her
another larynx for some time now. Guiltily, he paused in his repacking of his
satchel. “Whatever would I do without you here? You know, Dr Hodgson tells me
you were invaluable in the amputation of the Brower boy’s leg this week.” The
nurse gave one nod, returning to her sorting of bottles and packets of clean
bandages into the cabinets covering one wall of the small surgery. Vonken
patted her metal shoulder. “Now, it may take me the rest of the afternoon to
finish my rounds, but if an emergency arises, turn on the beacon. I won’t be
far.”
“Where are you going?” A weak voice, almost girlish,
arrested his attention. How can she
possibly be awake already? He turned to find Miss Autumnson groggily
sitting up. One hand immediately went to her head. “Oooh.” She gave him a
pained glare. “You didn’t say it was going to do that!”
Vonken took her wrist in his gloved hand, feeling her
pulse, stronger than he’d expected after what he’d taken out of her. She looked
askance at Ratchet. “You have an auto-matron for an assistant?”
“I find constructs often more honest and reliable than
humankind,” Vonken replied mildly. He peered into her eyes; they showed only a
little redness. Far less, in fact, than he’d displayed the first year or so
he’d employed his Dust-given powers. “How do you feel, my dear?”
“As though a great tree fell upon my head,” she grumbled.
Ratchet poured a neat spoonful of the willowbark tincture and offered it to
her. Miss Autumnson eyed it suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“To counteract that tree.”
“Hmf.” She accepted the medicine, grimacing at its
bitterness. Vonken continued stuffing items into his satchel. “Where are you
going? I need to talk to you,” she said.
Vonken shook his head. “I have patients to attend, Miss
Autumnson. I’ll have Ratchet summon the Watch for you, so you may have safe
passage back to your home.” Struck suddenly again by the impossibility of her
presence, he straightened his back and addressed her more directly. “How were
you able to break my wards? Or did...someone else...” The thought that Villard
might have an even more talented Coldspark in his employ was not one which had
occurred to him before, but Miss Autumnson’s wan smirk reassured him even as it
annoyed him.
“They’re still up, Doctor. I found the correct method of
passing through them.” She scowled. “You might’ve told me how to get out! Did you expect me to sit like a caged
sparrow and wait for you to return?”
“That was the general idea, yes.” Before she could
protest further, he stepped closer, leaning over her to make his point. “You
are damned fortunate to have found your way here without incident, I might add!
What were you thinking, coming down
Wharfside without even a guard? You could’ve been waylaid easily by any of
the...the less savory populace here.” He wondered how on earth she’d managed to
figure out his unconventional password spell, one he’d thought would prevent
anyone but him from penetrating the wards. It was supposed to be simple,
elegant, and impossible to simply guess.
“An army of berserk giant crabs doesn’t qualify as an incident?”
Vonken snorted. “Too common for remark, unfortunately.”
He hefted the bag, ready to venture among the downtrodden for the second time
today. “I don’t have time to chit-chat, Miss Autumnson. As you see, I am needed in this neighborhood.” Her blush
pleased him; she’d caught the implication that it was her presence which was superfluous.
“Then I’m coming along,” she said, her voice quiet but
steady. She slid off the couch, only then realizing her corset was loose.
“Oh...”
“Ratchet, see to her needs,” Vonken commanded, and set
his hat atop his head once more. He picked up his cane, but didn’t bother
thanking her for returning it to him. At least it didn’t seem worse for wear
after being used as a bludgeon against the crabs. He brushed the front of his charcoal-grey
greatcoat, irritated at the tiny spots of crab ichor dotting it. Blast. Well, I can always dye the whole
garment a deeper black, I suppose. He headed out, but hadn’t taken three
steps before he heard the smart rapping of a lady’s boots on the street behind
him. “Miss Autumnson, this is not
suitable for a lady. You should go home.”
“Dr Vonken, you won’t be rid of me until I receive some
answers,” Miss Autumnson said curtly, drawing abreast of him. She still
appeared a bit pale, but was matching his stride despite her shorter legs.
Vonken realized he wasn’t going to shake her, and perhaps it would be safer for
her for him to allow her to tag along. He glanced at her through his habitual
smoked spectacles: determination marked every line of her features, from her
sharp little nose to the smooth, rounded brow; from firm, delicate jaw to the
pout of her rosy lips. She didn’t seem to favor the garish painting of face the
way many of the upper class now did; but then she was young, and rather isolated in her father’s manse on the hill.
It made her appear innocent still, and he wondered just how much she’d seen of
true life outside her refined neighborhood. To her credit, she’d come through
half of Wharfside, apparently seeking him, and all on her own! Vonken quickly
tempered his rising feeling of admiration; it wouldn’t do to show her any encouragement, or she’d think
herself justified.
As he turned along a narrow, unpaved alleyway, he said,
“I can’t imagine what you felt was so urgent that you risked your own safety,
coming here.” The tenements crowded in overhead, four and five stories of
teetering brick and salt-corroded mortar making the buildings lean toward each
other at the top. Boarded-over windows did little to keep out the damp and the
oncoming cold. He reminded himself it was time to mix extra doses of colocynthus,
and to urge people to keep their living spaces as dry as possible to prevent pneumonia
infections.
Miss Autumnson’s voice sounded subdued; she gazed up and
around as they walked, and edged closer to him. “I...I didn’t know a Coldspark
could take the very life energy of a person.” He could feel hers ebbing back,
her pulse sensed easily now that he’d touched her. He felt as worn as a
charwoman’s scrubbing rag, but made sure his steps trod with authority along
the alley. In Wharfside, one ought never to appear weak... When he didn’t
respond to her, she continued, “Have you done that often?”
“No.”
After a few more steps, she persisted, though quietly:
“You could’ve warned me my head was going to hurt. And I feel as though...as
though you’ve ripped something from my heart. As though it’s...empty.”
“That will pass.”
“But did you have to be so—“
“Miss Autumnson,” Vonken growled low, “would you rather
have been torn apart like Rome before the Visigoths? I did what was required,
no more, no less.” He continued on, taking a turn down an even narrower passage
that anyone not familiar with the route would have completely missed, hidden as
it was behind an overgrowth of curling black ivy. He paused long enough to hold
the sooty vines away from Miss Autumnson’s unprotected head, gesturing her
through, then dusting off his gloves against one another. Black ivy would cause
severe itching on bare skin, although many of the urchins in the area seemed to
have developed a partial immunity from constant exposure to it.
“Thank you,” Miss Autumnson murmured, and he gave her a
curt nod. He made his way briskly between the crumbling hovels, heading for the
home of his most recalcitrant patient. “Why didn’t Mikael ever tell me you and
he had some sort of business partnership?” she asked, following directly in the
wake of his long grey coat.
Vonken let out an irritated sigh. “I had asked him to
keep our agreement discreet. Your brother had some unpleasant qualities, but
happily the integrity of his word was—“
“So you told him not
to tell me about something which has now ended up putting me in some sort of
danger?”
“I do not know why
he thought it would be prudent to send his discovery to you, my dear.”
Miss Autumnson continued badgering him. She must’ve been up hours pondering all
this, he thought glumly. “He instructed you to look in ‘the usual place.’
Had you regularly been coming into my
home for these secret projects, Dr Vonken?”
“It was, until recently, your brother’s home as well,” he
argued.
“I find this lack of consideration on both your parts highly ungentlemanly! Is
there anything in my house still which I should be aware of, whether you think it poses any danger or not?”
Vonken stopped, forcing her to halt just inches short of
him. Clearly uncomfortable, she nevertheless stared coldly up at him, her mouth
set in a pursed frown. “I am about to go into the home of a man whose
dalliances with the Wharfside ladies have caused him some unpleasant
consequences,” he told her. “I do not have time for your concerns, Miss Autumnson.
I suggest you wait out here, as I’m sure your delicate sensibilities would be
offended by the condition of my patient.”
“Why, is he covered in sores or pestilence?”
Vonken scowled at her flippant tone. He pulled down his
green-grey lenses to fix her directly with a glare. The shadows of the alley
didn’t hurt his eyes as the plain daylight did now, however overcast the
weather. “He has syphilis, Miss Autumnson.” Satisfied with her blanch, he
smiled. “Still want to accompany me?”
She swallowed, but braced her shoulders forward. “You
won’t be rid of me yet, Doctor.”
“As you wish, then.” He knocked at a door made of
nailed-together scraps of lumber. After a moment, a hoarse, accented voice
called out.
“Get off, you mongrels! I have no money for you!” Something
clattered within. “And if you try to force the door, I am waiting with mah
rifle!”
“Gus, it’s Vonken. May I come in?”
“Oh!” More noises, and a dull thud, as of something heavy
hitting the floor. “Oui, oui, come
in!” Vonken gingerly pushed open the door; once, Gus had forgot to disarm the
booby-trap of an iron balanced over the lintel, and the bruise took weeks to
fully heal.
The single room, with old newsprint wedged into the
cracks in the walls, stuffy from months without benefit of a sweeping and dim
and smoky with krakenoil lamps, was fairly cozy for this district, but Miss
Autumnson seemed taken aback. She waited just inside the door, shutting it
behind her. Vonken watched her from the corner of his eye as he took the
mercurous chloride and a clean dropper from his satchel; she seemed curious but
possibly appalled at the dirty plates and empty bottles covering the small
table, the crates used as seats, the ragged curtain thinly separating the bed
and the chamber-pot from the rest of the room. Gus Calleux turned from using
the pot, not bothering to button his trousers. “I think it’s not so bad this
time; at least nothing is falling off...” He stopped, blinking blearily, upon
seeing the young woman across the room. “Ahh! Vonken, your nurses get prettier
every year! Did you finally give up on your ugly metal matron?”
“Ratchet is at the clinic, as always,” Vonken returned,
gesturing for Calleux to sit on the bed so he could examine the man. “This is
Miss Holly Autumnson. Miss Autumnson, Mr Gustavus Calleux, trapper and
carouser.”
The old Frenchman laughed. “More of the latter, not so
much of the former, I’m afraid.” He grinned at Miss Autumnson’s hesitant nod.
“That’s a lovely sable you have on. One rarely finds the beasts now.”
“Thank you,” she replied, and Vonken grinned to himself. Would
she actually attempt polite conversation under these circumstances? True to
form, old Gus picked up a half-empty bottle of wine and gulped from it,
ignoring Vonken’s ministrations below his loosened belt, rheumy eyes fixed on
the young lady. “Do you...perhaps know where I might find a matching muff, Mr
Calleux?” she asked; glancing over, Vonken saw she’d turned to face the door,
her face flushed red. “Winter is almost upon us, and I haven’t anything
suitable to warm my hands.”
Gus chortled. “Oh, oui,
ma belle! I know something very
warm you could—“
“Gus,” Vonken warned, though it was difficult to suppress
a grin.
The Frenchman sighed. “Ah, I see, your new mistress, eh? Fine, fine, I behave.”
Miss Autumnson sounded as though she was straining to
speak around a beehive in her throat. “I am merely an acquaintance of the doctor’s, sir.”
“Cover up, man; don’t you know how to comport yourself
around a lady of quality?” Vonken chided Calleux. As the unrepentant old man
tucked in his shirt and buttoned his trousers, Vonken held out the full
dropper. “Open your mouth.”
“You sure I cannot have something sweeter?” Gus
complained, but took his medicine. Vonken left the dropper in the bottle, on
the battered dresser next to the bed.
“Take two dropperfuls of this morning and evening, and
for heaven’s sake try to wash more
often, Gus. And stay away from Miss Hattie’s!”
“I will, if you tell me where you found her,” Calleux said, his yellowed teeth
bared happily beneath his white moustache. Vonken shook his head, but smiled
with his back to Miss Autumnson.
“Hillside, my friend. Out of your range, I’m afraid.”
“A pity.” Gus leaned close, and whispered so loudly
Vonken was sure Miss Autumnson heard: “Come back later and tell me what it’s
like, eh? To slip your soldier into a sable fur that fine!”
“Take care, Gus.” Vonken started for the door, and Miss
Autumnson hurried out ahead of him. She stood fuming in the chill air, wrapping
her coat more tightly around her slender frame, as he checked to make sure he
wasn’t leaving anything behind; Gus had once taken his pocketwatch and pawned
it. Satisfied he had all he’d come with except the medicine he’d just dropped
off, he headed up the alley again.
Behind him, she sounded decidedly angry. “How dare you imply I am some sort of
concubine to that...that man!”
“I said nothing of the kind. Are you going to take
offense at every character we encounter? If so, I recommend you stop your ears
and put on blinders, and let me lead you like the mule you are, my dear.”
“That is absolutely
enough!” He didn’t respond, walking on, when suddenly he felt a harsh yank
inside his chest. Caught off-balance, he staggered, grabbing the nearest
jutting corner. What the hell? The heartlink!
Stunned, he looked back. Miss Autumnson strode toward him, brown eyes dark
with anger, her hair falling free of its pins as a gust of wind forced its way
through the alley. She appeared an angel of destruction bearing down on him,
her coat blowing back, her hands clenched into fists, and Vonken stared at her
in utter bewilderment. Did she just try
to sever the heartlink? How in blazes—
“How dare you
humiliate me in front of a filthy old reprobate?” she shouted, planting herself
directly before him, fists on her waist. “I don’t care if you were useful to
Mikael, I don’t care if you think you’ll best protect me by sending me back to my house without answering my
questions; to be honest, Doctor, I really don’t care what you think!” She stretched on her toes to shout in his face; he
felt her words blowing his moustache against his lip. “If you ever again treat me, or allow one of
your patients to treat me, as less
than a proper lady, I will have you
reprimanded by the Krampf Surgeon General!”
Vonken touched his chest, his hand shaking. His heart
still beat, and the aetheric connection to that other heart seemed secure, but for an instant he had felt... He
searched her face, confused. Is she not
even aware what she just did? But how...? Could that have been mere coincidence?
If so, than what could...?
She kept glaring at him. “Am I quite clear, Dr Vonken?”
He drew himself to his full height again, deciding
whatever had just happened, this girlish woman had no clue whatsoever. “Very,
Miss Autumnson.” He hesitated. Perhaps an apology would prevent another such
painful incident, whether intentional on her part or not. He inclined his head
to her. “I am sorry to have caused you any distress. I did warn you that this
was not a place suitable for a lady of Society.”
She continued to silently fume, her eyes boring into his
even through the tinted lenses, it seemed. “If you can agree to disregard the
low opinions of the inhabitants of Wharfside, I promise to curb my tongue,” he
offered, and meant it. Perhaps hearing the sincerity in his tone, she nodded,
and when he wordlessly resumed his mission, she once again followed him.
“Where are you going next?” she asked.
“To check on Mrs O’Leary, just in the next tenement. She
lost an infant recently to the pox, and I’m concerned she may be coming down
with it as well. You might wish to remain at a healthy distance.”
He glanced back, and saw her nod. She tried to put her
hair back up, though she’d lost at least one pin, and the wind had picked up.
Her veil was askew, revealing more of her clear forehead and light olive skin.
Vonken recalled that Mikael had told him their mother had been of Spanish
descent; that explained the lovely, dusky hair and eyes both siblings had.
Trying to repair the breach of decorum, she asked as she walked, “How many
patients do you have in Wharfside?”
Vonken spread his hands to both sides. “All of
them...those willing to be treated, at least. Some people refuse to let a
Coldspark anywhere near them. Dr Hodgson also tends the free clinic when he
can, and Ratchet is always there to dole out simple remedies or set broken
bones.”
“Free clinic? So none of your patients pay you?”
He shrugged. “Some of them bring crabs from the
canneries. I don’t eat them, but Dr Hodgson says they reserve some of the
choice bits for us. Other than that, one charwoman sends her two daughters over
to help clean the clinic every fortnight, and when repairs are needed to the
exterior we’re never short of hands.” He paused to offer his hand to her at a
broken-down cart which had been left to rot or be scavenged in the middle of
the path, and helped her step over it. “You see their circumstances, Miss Autumnson.
Only someone with the mentality of a leech would ask for payment for services
so essential to their bare existence.” He paused, listening. When Miss
Autumnson began to speak again, he held up a hand to shush her. He thought he
caught whispers from a burnt-out building on their right. Wind moaned through
the empty windowframes on the ground floor. No...there
is someone there. Hazarding a
guess based on the pitch of a voice he could not quite catch, he called out,
“Jeremy, didn’t your mother tell you it was rude to spy on people?”
Giggles confirmed his guess. The boy popped up, leaning
his bare elbows on the sooty stones of the window-hole. Dirty blonde pigtails
and bright eyes peeping over beside him told Vonken the boy’s sister had tagged
along. “Hi Doc. Who’s she?” Jeremy asked without preamble.
Vonken gestured gallantly at his determined companion.
“This is Miss Autumnson. She’s from Hillside, come to visit about a...a charity
venture. May I present Jeremy Pfisher and his little sister Annabelle, local
scamps.”
Jeremy laughed, never taking his curious gaze from Miss
Autumnson. “Why’s she trompin’ through the alleys? Ain’t never seen a lady do
that afore.”
Miss Autumnson reacted genteelly, as though used to
chatting with half-clothed, soot-stained urchins every day. “Pleased to meet
you, Mr Pfisher, Annabelle. I...decided to accompany the doctor on his rounds
in order to see what assistance he required in his good works. Perhaps I and my
sisters can help.”
Jeremy squinted. “You got sisters too? They’s a pain.”
“Hey!” little Annabelle squeaked, but then shyly hid
behind her brother as they ventured out of the ruined tenement.
“I meant my sisters in charity,” Miss Autumnson
explained, but the boy frowned.
Trying to get this encounter over with so he could
continue to his next patient, Vonken asked, “Is there something you needed,
Jeremy?”
“Yeah. It’s Betsy, Doc.” Jeremy’s lean face drew even
narrower when he frowned worriedly. “She ain’t well. Been coughing, and some of
it’s...red.”
Red? Consumption,
again? Dismayed, Vonken immediately changed his priorities. He thought he’d
eradicated it from this neighborhood earlier this year, but apparently not.
“Show me. Now.” He quickened his pace to follow the boy scampering through the
deserted building, climbing carefully up a mostly-burned-away stairwell. He
intended to tell Miss Autumnson to wait on the ground floor and be quiet, but
there she was, skirts tucked up in her sash, daintily picking her way up from
crumbling step to step after them. Shaking his head, Vonken focused on his own
risky ascent. A fall wouldn’t hurt him much, but there were things he’d rather
not reveal.
At the top of the fourth floor, less damaged by whatever
fire had gutted the place months back, Jeremy led the way to a door and rapped
upon it five times in a specific pattern. Vonken memorized the knock for future
reference, and removed his hat as he ducked inside after the children. Inside,
he saw where several of the orphans must have been nesting for some time:
discarded, moldy cushions and stained feather mattresses had been piled near
the coal-hearth, where a single lump smouldered. Box-sides and other bits of
lumber were nailed over the windows, but the chill seeped in everywhere.
Angrily, Vonken gathered up a swirl of sparking energy from the remnants in the
building, and cast it at the hearth. The coal blazed up in a green flame, and
numerous pairs of wide eyes turned from it to him. Ignoring their reaction, he
knelt on the mattresses. In the center, a tiny girl cocooned in old blankets
lay. Behind him, he heard Miss Autumnson murmur, “Oh...” in sympathy.
He felt the girl’s clammy forehead, checked her weak
pulse. Spots of red gleamed on her lips. “How long has she been like this?”
Jeremy answered; the other children, all younger than him
and in similar poor dress and poor health, gathered in a semicircle closer to
the greenfire, their need for warmth overcoming their trepidation, watching and
listening carefully. “’Bout a month, Doc. I told her she shoulda gone to your
clinic, but she was too afraid, and I couldn’t get no one to help me carry
her.” The boy glared at his companions. “I told
you he’d help!”
The girl woke at Vonken’s touch, and shied away from him,
uttering a frightened moan. He shushed her gently, stroked her hair, and
concentrated a tiny spark between his hands. The girl stared at the tiny ball
of golden light as he rolled it easily along his fingers, and then he held it
out to her. The girl gulped. “It’s okay, Betts,” Jeremy said. Vonken had used
this same trick to gain the boy’s confidence two years ago, while treating him
for a nasty gouge in the leg from a pike-hook. Uncertain, Betsy held out her
palm, and Vonken gently transferred the tiny ball of Coldspark energy to her.
Her eyes widened, and she sucked in a breath at its unexpected warmth. Vonken
smiled, and tapped the ball, making it break into a swirl of light which diffused
around the girl.
Startled at first, she then began to smile when the
warmth of it spread through her tiny body. She looked up at Vonken, this time
with more acceptance. “Hello, Betsy,” he said. “I’m Dr Vonken. I’m going to see
what I can do about this cough you’ve been having.” The girl nodded, and
relaxed, and allowed him to check her pulse and put his stethoscope to her
chest to listen to her lungs. It’s bad.
I’ll be surprised if she lives out the week like this.
Jeremy, watching his expression closely, whispered, “How
bad, Doc?”
Vonken sighed. “She needs a warm bed, Jeremy. Real food
and a dry place to rest. And all of you should burn these cushions and find
another place to bunk. This is contagious; you could all catch it if you don’t
do as I say. Understand?” Frightened, several of them nodded, casting unhappy
looks at the poor girl.
“Is it the White Plague?” Miss Autumnson asked. Vonken
nodded, wiping his stethoscope with a flash of greenfire between his fingers.
“Can you cure her?”
“I don’t know. It’s very advanced. This child should have
been in the sanatorium months ago.” He turned to regard the huddled children.
“I need to examine all of you. Anyone who’s been sleeping here.”
“Will Betsy die?” little Annabelle asked.
Vonken had no heart for lies to them. “She might. I’m
sorry. I will do all I can. Now let me see each of you, please.” He beckoned,
still kneeling. After a moment, Jeremy stepped forward, a brave look in his
eyes. Vonken gave him a nod of thanks, and swiftly checked his tongue, his
pulse, his breathing. “You’re fine. Come along, who’s next?” One by one, though
some needed coaxing or even bullying from Jeremy, each child approached him to
be examined. They were fascinated by the way he manipulated the aetheric energy
to cleanse his stethoscope each time. One small boy wouldn’t stop crying, and
Miss Autumnson crouched behind him, holding him still and whispering soothing
words into his ear the whole time. Vonken put his tools away at last, thankful
that only the one girl seemed to be infected. Yet. “All right. Now do as I’ve
said: burn these mattresses, and better, find somewhere else to sleep from now
on. If any of the rest of you begin coughing, or run a fever, or have chills,
come to the free clinic at once, do you hear?” He looked around once, taking care
to meet each of their eyes, his smoked lenses removed long enough to be sure
each of them saw the serious cast of his own blue ones. “It is absolutely
imperative that you see a doctor, either myself or Dr Hodgson, if you feel ill
at all, as soon as you can. We will
never turn you away, and we will help all we are able. Understand?”
Most of them nodded or murmured acquiescence, but then
Jeremy argued: “But where we gonna bed down now, Doc? Big Leo’s been around a
lot, and he...he ain’t real friendly to us. He hadn’t found us in here yet.”
“Big Leo?” Vonken rose to his feet, scowling. I thought the Watch had given him a good
drubbing. Not enough of one. “He’s out of prison, is he?” At the scared
little nods he received, Vonken’s expression darkened further. “You let me worry about Big Leo. All of you,
scout out another place this very night. Here.” He shook a few coins from the
soft purse hidden within his shirtwaist, handing them to Jeremy. “Buy some
coal, and some broth. Go to Maddie May’s, she has the strongest broth in this
part of Wharfside.”
“What about the girl?” Miss Autumnson asked.
Vonken wrapped the blankets more tightly around the
child, who’d fallen asleep again, her breathing shallow. He hefted her up,
worried at how light she felt. “I’ll see if the Granview Sanatorium has an
extra bed.”
Miss Autumnson put a hand on his arm, alarmed. “Granview!
But that’s where they take White Plague sufferers to...” Realizing her error,
she shut her mouth, but the paleness on Jeremy’s face said he plainly understood
what she’d been about to say. Trying again, she asked, “Is there no better
place for her to...to recover?”
His voice soft and low, Vonken replied, “I do not have
adequate facilities at my own home, and despite its name, All Souls’ won’t take
children from the slums no matter how dire their circumstances. The only chance
she has at all of survival is treatment at a place meant for this disease,
where she can be tended constantly.”
“Bring her to my house.”
Vonken blinked at her, surprised. “Do you comprehend what
this disease does?”
“I had an aunt who perished of it, before the Cataclysm.
My father’s sister. He told me of her suffering.” Miss Autumnson’s gaze was
steady, and he was startled to see actual compassion in it. Perhaps she could do some good here, after
all, not just lip service to the cause like the rest of her ilk. “Can you
treat her yourself?”
Trying to readjust his thoughts, Vonken looked at the
peaceful face of the child in his arms. “I will begin administering the
bacteriophagic serums, if you are to house her yourself, yes...but she may not
recover, and you will have to destroy anything she coughs upon, and take
precautions yourself to avoid contamination.”
She touched his arm, forcing his gaze to return to her
serious dark eyes. “I...I have heard that a Coldspark can heal...”
Vonken frowned. “No. Absolutely not.”
“But I have read,” Miss Autumnson persisted, “Surely you
are familiar with Jameson Millbush, the celebrated Coldspark? They say he cured
a whole sanatorium in San Diego! Surely, with your talents, you could—“
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Vonken growled,
moving away from the children, who listened eagerly. “That imbecile glory-hound
Millbush didn’t heal those people, he
cursed them!”
“All their symptoms vanished! The newspaper said –“
“The newspaper did not
tell of what is happening to those poor bastards now, these months later,” Vonken hissed. “Right around now, they
will be experiencing the aftereffects of that energy so foolishly poured into
them! Do you know what an excess of greenfire does to the human body? Do you?”
When she stared at him, bewildered, he reminded her roughly, “I have lived through those effects, seen the
people around me begin to change, to
grow extra limbs or go blind or have their very organs seep through their skin!
The Dust energy affects each person differently, but too much of it in every
case only leads to horror! Do you
understand?” The room was silent, even the fire in the tiny hearth seeming
muted. “I will never, never use my
unasked-for gift thus. You saw what I
did to the crabs. Now imagine that happening to this poor girl...but so slowly
as to allow her to feel every tingling agony of it a hundred times before she
perishes!”
Miss Autumnson shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I’m
sorry...I didn’t know...”
All the children were staring at him. Regretting his
speech, Vonken carefully bundled Betsy in the blankets, making sure they
wouldn’t come loose as he carried her even if the wind blew fierce. He lowered
his protective spectacles once more, and gave the leader of the group a nod.
“Jeremy. Please do as I’ve bid you. I’ll find Big Leo and have a little chat
with him, man to man.”
The boy swallowed hard, but offered up: “Y’mean...troll
to Coldspark?”
Vonken smiled. “If it comes to that. Yes.”
They left. Miss Autumnson preceded him down the
half-destroyed stairs, glancing up in concern often, but he placed his feet
cautiously and didn’t allow his grip on the girl to falter. In the upstairs
hall above, his sensitive ears caught the frightened voice of one of the other
children: “He’s scary.”
Jeremy replied, “Yeah, I know...but he’s on our side.”
Vonken couldn’t quite manage a smile. If they’re scared of me now, he thought,
how much worse would it be if they knew
all? Much worse. Especially if any of them thought to run and tell the Surgeon
General.
Wrenching his mind from that ugly scenario, Vonken
carried the sick child out of the chilly wreck of a building, and headed for
the docks, where a hack might be procured to drive them to Autumn Hill. He was
surprised at first at the light touch of Miss Autumnson on his arm, and looked
down at her. She met his stare with a determined, silent one of her own, and he
decided not to question her. She was helping, for now, and perhaps it was
enough to use an ally wherever he could find one.
All alliances were temporary, he knew, but at least this one
was so far interesting.
