“I thought you might want it.”
I offer him the bottle, but he doesn’t take it. “I was saving that.”
“What for? Here, give me your hand.” I blot the stitching—which is much cleaner than I had previously thought; I am far too hard on myself—with the soaked towel. Callum coughs with his cheeks puffed out when the vinegar tang strikes the air. Then it’s a strip of cheesecloth around the finger, bound and tucked.
Stitched, bandaged, and sorted. I haven’t even broken a sweat.
A year of men telling me I am incapable of this work only gives my pride a more savage edge, and I feel, for the first time in so many long, cold, discouraging months, that I am as clever and capable and fit for the medical profession as any of the men who have denied me a place in it.
I wipe my hands off on my skirt and straighten, surveying the bakery. In addition to every other task that needs doing before we close up for the night, the dishes will need to be rewashed. There’s a long dribble of blood along the floor that will have to be scrubbed before it dries, another on my sleeve, and a splatter across Callum’s apron that should be soaked out before tomorrow. There is also a fingertip to be disposed of.
Beside me, Callum takes a long, deep breath and lets it hiss out between pursed lips as he examines his hand. “Well, this rather spoils the night.”
“We were just washing up.”
“Well, I had something . . . else.” He pushes his chin against his chest. “For you.”
“Can it wait?” I ask. I’m already calculating how long this will leave Callum useless over the ovens, whether Mr. Brown will be able to lend a hand, how much this will cut into my time off this week, which I had planned to use to begin a draft of a treaty in favor of educational equality.
“No, it’s not . . . I mean, I suppose . . . it could, but . . .” He’s picking at the edges of the bandage but stops before I can reprimand him. He’s still pale, but a bit of the ruddiness is starting to return to the apples of his cheeks. “It’s not something that will last.”
“Is it something for eating?” I ask.
“Something of a . . . just . . . stay there.” He wobbles to his feet in spite of my protestations and disappears into the kitchen. I hadn’t noticed anything special when I was mixing the wine and vinegar, but I also hadn’t been particularly looking for it. I check my fingers for blood, then swipe a clean one over the iced bun I had previously targeted. “Don’t strain yourself,” I call to him.
“I’m not,” he replies, immediately followed by a crash like something tin knocked over. “I’m fine. Don’t come back here!”
He appears behind the counter again, more red-faced than before and one sleeve sopping with what must have been the milk he so raucously spilled. He’s also clutching a fine china plate before him in presentation, and upon it sits a single, perfect cream puff.
My stomach drops, the sight of that pastry sending a tremble through me that a waterfall of blood had not.
“What are you eating?” he asks at the same moment I say “What is that?”
He sets the plate on the counter, then holds out his uninjured hand in presentation. “It’s a cream puff.”
“I can see that.”
“It is, more specifically, because I know you love specificity—”
“I do, yes.”
“—exactly the cream puff I gave you the day we met.” His smile falters, and he qualifies, “Well, not exactly that one. As that was months ago. And since you ate that one, and several more—”
“Why did you make me this?” I look down at the two choux halves with whorls of thick cream sculpted between them—he’s never this careful with his craftsmanship, his loaves and cakes the kind of rustic you’d expect to be made by a big-handed baker of good Scotch stock. But this is so deliberate and decorative and—zounds, I can’t believe I know exactly what type of pastry this is and how important it is to let the flour mixture cool before whisking in the egg. All this baking nonsense is taking up important space in my head that should be filled with notations on treating popliteal aneurisms and the different types of hernias outlined in Treaties on Ruptures, which I took great pains to memorize.
“Maybe we should sit down,” he says. “I’m a little . . . faint.”
“Likely because you lost blood.”
“Or . . . yes. That must be it.”
“This really can’t wait?” I ask as I lead him over to one of the tables crowded in the front of the shop. He carries the cream puff, and it wobbles on the plate as his hand shakes. “You should go home and rest. At least close the shop tomorrow. Or Mr. Brown can supervise the apprentices and we can keep everything simple. They can’t muck up a bread roll too badly.” He makes to pull the chair out for me, but I wave him away. “If you are insistent upon moving forward with whatever this is, at least sit down before you fall over.”
We take opposite sides, pressed up against the cold, damp window. Down the road, the clock from Saint Giles’ is striking the hour. The buildings along the Cowgate are gray with the twilight, and the sky is gray, and everyone passing the bakery is wrapped in gray wool, and I swear I haven’t seen color since I came to this godforsaken place.
Callum sets the cream puff on the table between us, then stares at me, fiddling with his sleeve. “Oh, the wine.” He casts a glance over at the counter, seems to decide it’s not worth going back for, then looks again to me, his hands resting on the tabletop. His knuckles are cracked from the dry winter air, fingernails short and chewed raw around the edges.
“Do you remember the first day we met?” he blurts.
I look down at the cream puff, dread beginning to spread in my stomach like a drop of ink in water. “I remember quite a lot of days.”
“But that one in particular?”
“Yes, of course.” It was a humiliating day—it still stings to think of it. Having written three letters to the university on the subject of my admission and received not a word in reply for over two months, I went to the office myself to investigate whether they had arrived. As soon as I gave my name to the secretary, he informed me that my correspondence had indeed been received, but no, it had not been passed on to the board of governors. My petition had been denied without ever being heard, because I was a woman, and women were not permitted to enroll in the hospital teaching courses. I was then escorted from the building by a soldier on patrol, which just seemed excessive, though it would be a lie to say I did not consider sprinting past the secretary and bursting through the door into the governors’ hall without permission. I wear practical shoes and can run very fast.
But, having been unceremoniously deposited on the street, I had consoled myself at the bakeshop across the road, drowning my sorrows in a cream puff made for me by a round-faced baker with the figure of a man to whom cakes are too available. When I had tried to pay him for it, he’d given me my coins back. And as I was finishing it, at this very table beside this very window (oh, Callum was truly digging in the talons of sentimentality by sitting us here), he made a tentative approach with a mug of warm cider and, after a good chat, an offer of employment.
He had looked then like he was trying to lure a snappish dog in from the cold to lie beside his fire. Like he knew what was best for me, if only my stubborn heart could be enticed there. He looks the same way now, earnestly presenting me that same sort of cream puff, his chin tipped down so that he’s looking up at me through the hedgerow of his eyebrows. “Felicity,” he says, my name wobbling in his throat. “We’ve known each other for a while now.”