“You’ll never be happy on the mainland. There’s no magic there, no—”
“I don’t believe in magic. You know this.”
Mother’s lips flicker into a sad smile, and her tone becomes wistful. “You used to believe in magic. You used to help me make draughts and potions. You used to sit at my side all day and read the tea leaves of the shop patrons. Don’t you remember what it was like back then? Amelie would play the piano and sing while you and I would lay our hands on the sick and cleanse their energy. You were so powerful then.”
I shake my head. “I was a child. A little girl who confused her imagination for magic and thought she gave offerings to the fae because they were friends with the humans. I know better now.”
“If you don’t believe in magic, how do you explain the fae?”
“The fae aren’t magic. They’re creatures like any other. Everything they do can be explained with science.”
“Science doesn’t explain everything,” Mother says. “Sometimes you have to follow your heart.”
With gritted teeth, I force a smile. “Lucky for me, both science and my heart are telling me to go to the mainland. That’s my choice. You won’t change my mind.”
We hold each other’s gaze, and I try my best to maintain my composure, even as Mother’s eyes fill with tears. The bell rings from inside the shop. A male voice calls out, a patron entering the apothecary, but Mother makes no move to greet him. She looks like she wants to say more to me, to find the right words that will convince me to stay with her. Nothing will convince me. Nothing.
Finally, Mother averts her gaze and peeks out the window that looks into the shop. “Mr. Anderson is here for his tincture,” she whispers.
I take the opportunity to shove a piece of bread in my mouth, but after the argument with my mother, its taste is bitter.
Mother leaves the table and heads to the doorway. She pauses beneath the arch, back facing me. Her voice comes out with more sorrow than I expect. “Don’t lose all faith in magic, Evie. Keep at least a flicker of it alive in your heart and know no matter how far you go, you can always come back home.”
She disappears into the shop, and I hear her cheerful voice greet Mr. Anderson. I should feel victorious after winning the argument with Mother. I should feel excited about medical school.
But all I feel is empty, the haunting tone of Mother’s words still echoing through my head.
Chapter Four
The tang of blood mixed with the sharp aroma of alcohol fills the air of the surgery room. I refuse to tremble as I hazard a glance at the mangled limb of the patient and what used to be a hand. All that remains are strands of tissue, muscle, and bone in unnatural angles dangling from the forearm. Hank Osterman groans on the operating table, writhing beneath my hands as I keep a firm grip on his shoulders.
“Chloroform, Miss Fairfield,” Mr. Meeks says, his voice calm yet firm.
I rush to obey, soaking a cotton cloth in chloroform, then placing it inside the metal inhalation cone. “It’s going to be all right, Mr. Osterman.” I try to mimic Mr. Meeks’ calming tone as I cover the patient’s nose and mouth with the cone. After a few breaths, his groans subside and his body grows slack.
“Tourniquet,” Mr. Meeks says.
I fix the strap above Mr. Osterman’s elbow, then turn the screw that tightens the slack. The flow of blood begins to lessen.
“Bone saw.”
I reach for the saw. My stomach dives as Mr. Meeks takes it from me. I’d hoped he would let me operate the bone saw this time. With hardly a blink, I swallow my disappointment and keep my eyes trained on Mr. Meeks’ every move. His motions are smooth and deliberate. In no time, the lower arm is completely detached. I dispose of the mangled remains, then hand over clamps, needle, and thread, watching Mr. Meeks’ deft fingers as he ties off arteries and stitches the skin together over the wound. Like always, I’m at a loss for words, awed with the power a surgeon like Mr. Meeks has. The power to save lives.
Sweat is dripping from my brow by the time the operation is over.
Mr. Meeks looks at me for the first time since the surgery began. His gray eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “You did well, Miss Fairfield. I’m glad you were able to get here so quickly. It would have been quite the challenge without you, dear girl.”
His praise lifts my shoulders, and I grin with pride. Never mind his tone erred on the side of patronizing. I like to tell myself he simply thinks of me too much like a daughter to forgo with the cosseting. “I’m glad I could be here too. Every chance I can learn the trade is a chance I’m eager to have.”
“Yes, well, my son is on holiday on the mainland, as you know. Since he couldn’t be here today, I’m pleased I was graced with the next best. Now, my dear, do clean up if you will. Mr. Osterman will be awake soon and I’d rather he didn’t have to see this mess.”
I deflate as Mr. Meeks shuffles out of the room. He didn’t mean to insult me, I’m sure, but sometimes the old man can be quite daft, regardless of his genius status amongst the people of Sableton. I know he’s fond of me as his apprentice, but he never hesitates to make it clear his son is his successor, not me. His special little fop of a son, who I’m sure hasn’t spent half the time in the surgery room as I have. He clearly cares more about taking one holiday after the next than helping his dear old father.
Great Mother above, help the injured residents of Sableton once Mr. Meeks retires and leaves the village in the hands of his idiot son.
I shake out my wrists, realizing my nails have dug into my palms. Never mind that. Never mind. It’s not my concern anyway, I remind myself as I grit my teeth and haul the tray of bloodied tools to the stove. I’m going to medical school. I’m leaving Sableton behind for good.
Once the tools have been cleaned, boiled, and dried, I untie my bloodstained apron, adding it to the basket of soiled laundry. I heft the basket and start toward the door when I hear a moan from behind me.
“Mr. Meeks!” I shout into the hall, then rush to the operating table where Mr. Osterman is beginning to stir. His eyelids flutter as he lets out another pained groan. Without so much as a tremble, I reach for the bottle of laudanum, extract a dropperful, then place the dropper between his lips. “This will help.” He grimaces but doesn’t fight me as I drop the liquid—thirty drops, with precision—into his mouth. I call for Mr. Meeks again. Even though I have everything under control, there’s one thing I can’t do alone, and that’s help Mr. Osterman to the parlor. His towering weight would crush me, even if I could get him to walk mostly on his own.
The patient’s groans subside, and his muscles begin to relax. “The fae did this,” he mutters drowsily, one word rolling into the next. His lids are still fluttering over his eyes. “She tricked me. She made me put my hand…in a bear trap.”
I freeze. A fae is responsible for this? Hank Osterman is one of the best hunters in Sableton. What kind of evil creature could trick him into doing such a thing? And why?
He lifts his head. It wobbles, giving him a glance at what remains of his arm before he rests it back on the table. He bares his teeth in an angry snarl. “I thought she was a woman. She looked like a woman.”