His tone chills me, leaving me without a reply.
“Ah, Mr. Osterman, you’re awake,” Mr. Meeks says as he approaches the table, his surgeon’s calm never faltering. “Come, let’s get you to the parlor to wait for your wife.”
“My wife,” Mr. Osterman echoes.
“Yes, she’s bringing the carriage. Come now.” Mr. Meeks puts his hand behind the patient’s head, helping ease him into a sitting position.
Mr. Osterman steadies himself with his good arm, and the amputated limb twitches, as if trying to copy the movement of the other. A wince of pain shoots across his face, and he closes his eyes.
I reach for the bottle next to me. “More laudanum.”
Mr. Meeks shakes his head. “No, he’s had enough for now. We’ll send him home with a bottle for his wife to administer. Now, come Hank. On your feet.”
Mr. Osterman doesn’t obey. Instead, he opens his eyes and glances again at the severed arm. For endless moments he just stares at it. Then his shoulders heave, head falling into his remaining hand. Sobs tear out of him.
All I can do is stare with wide eyes as Hank Osterman—undoubtedly one of the strongest, burliest men in my village—is completely undone.
And the fae are to blame.
My heart sinks. I think about the Holstrom girls, gone nearly a week now. What’s it been like living in Faerwyvae, in that horrible, monstrous place? Are they being tormented by the same heartless creatures that did this to Mr. Osterman? The thought ties my stomach in knots. Now that the giddy relief over Amelie’s and my safety has worn off, it’s much easier to feel bad for the Holstrom girls.
As the minutes tick by, Mr. Osterman’s sobs don’t seem to be letting up, no matter how much Mr. Meeks tries to console him. Finally, Mr. Meeks takes a step away and turns to me with a whisper. “Poor man. I wish we could have done more for him.”
I keep my voice low. “He said a fae was responsible. Do you think he was glamoured?”
Mr. Meeks looks back at his sobbing patient, expression grave. “He may have been, although I’d be surprised if that were true. He was wearing rowan berries around the arm we removed. I think it may be a matter of simple fae trickery.”
“Rowan berries?” I’m shocked. Not by Mr. Osterman wearing them, but by Mr. Meeks’ belief in them. He’s always sharing his scientific theories with me, explaining the fae through logic. I never took the wearing of rowan berries to be anything more than superstition. A false magic.
“Rowan berries have proven to be effective at preventing a glamour,” he explains. “It hasn’t been studied thoroughly, but those of us in the scientific community believe rowan berries release a chemical upon skin contact that somehow helps preserve the function of our amygdala in the presence of the fae. That way, one need not rely solely on severing eye contact to prevent a glamour.”
Awe washes over me as my lips pull into a grin. Logic never ceases to have that effect. “That actually makes sense.”
Mr. Meeks pats me on the head. “Such an apt pupil. Now, run along, Miss Fairfield. Mr. Osterman wouldn’t want a young lady to witness him in such a state.” He tilts his head back at the sobbing man.
My grin slips from my lips. I want to remind him I’m more than just some young lady. I’m a surgeon’s apprentice and soon-to-be medical professional. However, Mr. Meeks has always been the one person I can’t bring myself to argue with. His mentorship has been my ticket to freedom. If I spoke to him the way I speak to most people, I never would have gotten the apprenticeship, much less kept it for the last two years. Instead, I nod and wish him a good evening.
As I’m about to pass through the door, Mr. Meeks says, “Oh, and don’t forget the laundry, dear.”
I grit my teeth, finding the basket I’d dropped earlier when Mr. Osterman woke. With an irritated sigh, I take it to the laundry room.
The September air is mild when I leave Mr. Meeks’ house, the sun beginning to set. At the end of the drive, a carriage comes my way. It must be Mrs. Osterman. I refuse to look inside as I pass it, not wanting to witness the woman’s worry. She must be terrified for her poor husband.
I take my time back to Ettings Street, where most of the shops are located. Once there, I stop at the post. We already got our letters this morning, but I’m eager to see if anything has arrived for us since. It’s silly of me to expect anything from the university so soon. It’s only been four days since I sent my acceptance letter. But that doesn’t stop me from checking twice a day. A girl can’t be sensible in all things, you know.
I leave the post empty handed, then continue my walk. At the other end of Ettings is Mother’s shop, Fairfield Apothecary, which is also our home. It’s nestled between the baker and the dressmaker. You can imagine Amelie’s delight to be so near a dressmaker. As for me…I prefer the bakery.
My stomach growls at the thought. Surgery always works up an appetite for me. After all the gruesome parts are well past done, of course.
I can think of nothing but warm soup and buttered bread as the bakery comes into view. Then something unusual snags my attention—a figure walking toward me with sure, calculated steps. It’s then I realize how quiet Ettings Street is. The few villagers passing between shops seem frozen as they watch the figure make his way along the sidewalk.
He’s fae.
My mind brings forth visions of the fae I met at the wall, and I try to find what I remember of his features in the male coming my way. But this fae is undoubtedly shorter, stouter. He wears thick-rimmed spectacles, which I didn’t know fae wore, and a long, burgundy and bronze jacket that reaches his ankles. Beneath the jacket, he wears a pair of cream trousers, a russet waistcoat, and a bronze cravat in a floral pattern. The only similarity between him and the fae from the wall is the smug smile.
I don’t meet his eyes as he passes by, but a shiver runs down my spine once he’s behind me. I can guess where he’s heading. He’s clearly a fae ambassador and likely on his way to smooth things over with the Ostermans.
A fae drawing human blood could be seen as an act of war—should be seen as an act of war. Yet, I already know that’s not how things will go. The ambassador has probably already spoken with the mayor, delivering sleek words and sorry excuses for the troublesome fae’s unwitting behavior. Then he’ll go to the Ostermans, offer to pay for the surgery we performed and make financial amends for loss of limb and income. The council will let it slide. Again. Just another accident. A misunderstanding.
I’m so angry, I could explode. It’s then I notice the street has remained quiet. The villagers are still loitering outside the shops, staring at where the fae ambassador went. I whirl around, but he’s out of sight. It makes me wonder if something else happened. Maybe the mayor didn’t cave for once.
Whatever the case, the mood on Ettings Street has me rattled. I quicken my pace, forgetting the bakery as I make a straight line for home. That’s when I realize the villagers aren’t staring after the fae ambassador. They’re watching me.
Nausea wrenches my gut as my mind begins to spin. There’s a reasonable explanation for this. Maybe they’re only staring because I had the nerve to walk past the fae while everyone else stood frozen in fear.
I want to be right. I have to be right.