Carry On Page 5

  Making friends with the night staff, or at least being seen as easy to work with, doing her fair share, was very much in her interest. Even if it had meant knitting until her hands ached, and then trading her needles for a book. Then a letter. Then bandage rolling. Then the book again. Then finally allowing herself the letter she’d been saving.

  That had been a mixed blessing, because it was one from her best friend, and it made her heart ache. It had been one thing when she’d been at the Temple of Youth. She had been busy there. Sometimes the work was heartbreaking, children, young men and women, who wouldn’t get the lives they should have. But she had felt like she was doing something useful, and she had been busy. Her friends from Lavender House, her home while she was at school, were all doing useful things.

  This letter from Amet was another sharp reminder of how useless she felt. Her friend was working on a project with the apothecary, packaging up medicinal potions in different ways. She’d stayed on with the master she’d apprenticed to, because, as she pointed out, he had a tremendous amount more to teach her.

  Elen knew it wasn’t just that, that Master Luther had treated her like his own daughter, given her roots when she’d changed in ways her family couldn’t understand. But Amet was very busy, and though Elen had been in Trellech a fortnight already, she hadn’t been able to get free to see her.

  Elen paused, thinking about families. She hadn’t been so lucky either. Her family didn’t complain that she’d gone into the Healing Temple. But her mother was baffled that she hadn’t chosen midwifery, and her father muttered about how a healer would be proper useful, he wasn’t sure what a nurse did besides pat people on the hand.

  They loved her, she knew that, but they didn’t understand her. And she didn’t understand them. Her father had worked his way up to overseeing the Dolaucothi gold mine from being a miner. It was much safer for him now, and gold had always been safer to mine than coal. Though safe was a relative term.

  Once she’d gone to school, she’d done her best to stay out of their way when she was home on holidays. She’d help her mother with the garden, run messages around for her father. Mostly, she’d holed up in Uncle Dewi’s workshop, where she wouldn’t bother anyone.

  When he had time, he’d teach her how to work the locks - part of his trade, as the mine’s locksmith. Or she’d watch him mend watches and clocks, though she’d never had the dexterity for that herself. Otherwise she’d knit, or read. All those habits had continued, until now she wasn’t sure what else to do with herself when she wasn’t working. She missed even that somewhat tenuous space, though, a place where there weren’t so many expectations.

  No matter. Amet was happy, that was good. She could write back, when she got a chance. It felt ridiculous, to be in the same city, and not have seen her yet, but her life had been her own recovery and healer appointments before she’d gotten her assignment. Now, there were a few snatched hours to deal with darning and laundry and her own personal needs. She doubted she’d be back before the lodging house curfew tonight.

  It was at that moment that she heard the Major begin to stir. “Major Gospatrick?”

  He grimaced, making a face like his mouth tasted foul, and she immediately reached for the glass of water she had ready. “Water, Major?” He pushed himself upright enough to drink, then took the glass from her, his hand shaking with a tremor, but not enough, she judged, for him to spill it down his front. He got a good half the glass down, before thrusting it at her blindly. Then he was pushing himself out of bed, aiming at the lavatory, and she almost stopped him.

  She must have made some noise, because he growled over his shoulder “Don’t.” He didn’t fall, but he almost toppled, taking a step or two, catching himself on the door frame, then staggering inside, closing the door behind him.

  Elen knew she should go for one of the orderlies. Even if they were understaffed, even if there was a difficult newly admitted patient on the ward. She glanced at the door, then decided she’d wait, see if she heard anything worrisome. There were only the faint ordinary sounds of someone making use of the facilities. That was a good sign, perhaps. No sound of vomiting, or worse, of a body hitting the hard floor.

  She’d make use of the time she had. She pulled back the sheets, gathered her magic into her hands, then spread it, cleansing and freshening the bedding, so that it had the faint tint of lavender and rosemary, rather than the stale smell of sickness and sweat. She refilled the glass, charming the water cool, and went to make sure the covered supper tray was ready.

  Then, she considered her reserves, and tried one last enchantment, one she couldn’t always manage, but that would make the bed feel far more comfortable, like one of the most plush woollen mattresses from her childhood. Then she gathered what she knew she’d need, the thermometer and a clean cloth for it.

  It took several minutes, nearly five, by the clock, but then the door cracked open, and he made his way back to the bed. He was looking pale, even in the uncertain light of the charm lamp. She could see sweat beading on his forehead, too. A decided fever. He glanced at the bed, frowned, as if he couldn’t place what she’d done, then he sank into it, then pulled his legs under the covers.

  “May I take your temperature, Major? If you’re running a fever, I can help with that.”

  He considered, looking for all the world as if he’d deny her. She was asking out of politeness. First, he could barely stand up, he couldn’t do much to dissuade her. And second, she’d learned her early skills on donkeys and mine ponies and guard dogs. The day she couldn’t get a creature to sit still and be dosed was the day she’d hang up her nurse’s cap. Grudgingly, he nodded, and she pulled out the thermometer.

  “A fever. I have your evening potion for you, but I’d like to give you something for the fever first, and your evening meal.”

  He grunted, then yielded enough to say, “Sure.”

  Elen got up and found the potion she’d set aside on the table, bringing the bottle over. Harry had said he could have one, chosen from the standard options, any of them she saw fit. Whatever he was taking, the regular evening potion, his other treatments, it didn’t seem to be susceptible to interference.

  She’d chosen one of her favourites for fever, one that didn’t suppress it, so much as eased the course of it. Fevers had a purpose in the body, burning out infection, and she’d not get in the way unless it were actually necessary.

  He blinked at the bottle, then glanced at her. “Why this?” His voice cracked, still dry, and she moved to pour more water, then to settle the bed tray over his lap, before bringing over the plates of food. They’d had a keep-warm plate, and the simple stew of chicken, potato, and carrots looked hearty enough, and largely easy on an unsettled stomach. Easy to eat with a spoon, too.

  “Better for you than the others.” She settled down in the chair, so as not to loom over him. He drank the bottle, handed the empty back silently, and then peered at his plate, beginning to pick at it. She’d noticed he didn’t seem to have too much of an appetite. She let him eat without interruption, until he put his spoon down.

  “May I ask something, sir?” She cleared her throat. “Two things.”

  He waved a hand, irritably. “Go ahead.”

  “Are your - presentations always like that?”

  “Like what?” He sounded more than a bit annoyed.

  Elen tried to figure out how to put into words what she’d seen. It was like he’d put on a completely different body. Still hurt, still unsteady, but his eyes had been bright and sharp, his attention focused, and oh, he’d been charming and smiling. There was something she’d seen in there, that reminded her of the tales of dragons with their hoards, the things that lit them up from inside, and gave them fire. Only, she’d also seen flickers that suggested the reality was rather more complicated, starting with how completely he’d collapsed afterwards.

  “You shone, sir. Near glowed with it. Your focus, your intensity.”

  “Paying for it now. For days.” His voi
ce cracked again, and she instinctively reached to move the water where he could reach it more comfortably. He took it, then drained the glass. She stood to go refill it, then brought it back.

  “You notice the water.” It was one of the only times he hadn’t seemed irritated at her.

  “Water is life, one of my teachers said. And you look...” She tried to figure out how to explain this best. “There’s a look, to people who haven’t had enough. Pinched and dry. You have that. It’s getting better. And it might help other things.”

  “Like what?” That had the tone of someone who was suddenly quite interested in the answer, but trying not to show it.

  She sat down again, and let out a puff of air, looking at him for a long moment. “Look. They won’t tell me much about your treatment. I’m just supposed to do what I’m told, keep an eye on you.” She suddenly hoped no one was about to come through the door and check on him. “I’d like to help you more, but that is tricky, when I don’t know what you’re taking,”

  “Potion in the morning. Potion at night. That one - I don’t like.”

  She glanced at the table at the far wall, with the small bottle on it. “May I fetch it? Get a good look at it? I won’t make you take it yet. Not until we are completely certain you’re done with dinner.” She hadn’t had a chance, previously, since Harry brought it in when it was time to be taken, and she had been sure he’d tell someone if she lingered over giving the proper dose.

  Major Gospatrick peered at her for a moment, then at his plate, and then it clicked for him. “Oh, yes. I might have a few more bites, leave it there, please.”

  It made her smile, an honest smile, for what felt like the first time in days. “Exactly, Major.” He might be slow due to his injuries or his potions, but she was - after that day’s performance - now quite sure he was a naturally quick-witted man. She got up to fetch the evening potion dose, and when she brought it back, he was looking at her with a queer expression.

  “Must you call me that?” Not at all what she had expected from him, the way he’d been treating her.

  “Major, sir?”

  “That, Major Gospatrick. Are you permitted to call me something else?”

  “We are advised, sir, to use your rank and surname.” Also, she had been firmly instructed in what to say if asked.

  “Where were you a nurse before.”

  “The front, sir. Several locations in France.”

  “And before that?”

  It was the first time he’d been interested. “The Temple of Youth, sir. Working with younger patients who were recovering from long-term illnesses.”

  “And what did you call them?”

  She had to smile, he had been like a terrier with the logic. “It depended. Their age, their illness.”

  “My name is Roland. Roland Arthur Gospatrick.”

  “Sir.” It didn’t seem like enough, so then she ventured what should be a fairly neutral observation. “Your family seems to have been interested in famous heroes, then.”

  He snorted. “Yes. A long history of it. I’ve rather let the side down.”

  Elen was not at all sure what to do with that. Instead, she took the potion bottle, taking the chance to peer at it, then she drew out her notebook, sketching the bottle shape, noting the odd deep purple colour, not terribly common, and the wax on the cap.

  “One of these every night? Do they all look like this?” She didn’t have anything to take a sample away, and with the war on, getting glass vials would be complicated.

  He nodded, and she looked up to see him focused on her. “They do. I think. I haven’t much paid attention.”

  “May I see what I can find out about it?”

  Major Gospatrick blinked at her. “I can scarcely stop you, now.”

  “If you told Sister Almeda, she would, I rather suspect, send me away and be done with it.”

  There was a long silence before he said, “I prefer your reading voice.” It came out more clipped. When he spoke again, his voice was muted. “I should take that.”

  Silently, she handed him the bottle, and a few minutes after he had drained it, he was well on his way into a deep sleep. She tidied things up, and then gathered her bag, letting the night orderly know she was leaving to go get her own rest.

  Chapter 8

  Thursday, April 8th, the Temple gardens

  Two days later, Roland was startled when Nurse Morris asked, “Would you like to go outside for a while? It’s pleasantly warm, and I found a spot that’s not in the sun.”

  “Outside?” He hadn’t been outside since he’d been brought here. “Are, am I allowed?”

  “In your chair, yes.” She fell silent and he caught the way her gaze landed on his face, then darted away. A decided tell that she was nervous about something, but he had no idea what.

  “Will it cause you trouble if I don’t go? Or if I do?” He pushed himself more upright, considering the question of clothing.

  She coughed. “I suggested it might help your recovery, if you had a bit of time out in fresh air. Sister Almeda approves of fresh air.” She glanced at the window.

  “Do I have to keep calling you Nurse Morris?” He grimaced, feeling a twinge in his back. “And what am I supposed to wear out there, then?”

  “Robe over your pyjamas, socks, and slippers, and a proper lap blanket to keep you warm. You needn’t get dressed, sir, if you’d rather not.”

  “I’d like for it not to be a difficult decision, but that’s not on offer, is it?” He grumbled, but he glanced at her, and offered a slight smile. She’d been remarkably steady since their conversation in the late evening after his performance, professional and sharp, but he’d sensed something had changed. Perhaps getting him outside was part of it.

  Nurse Morris smiled. “We can discuss alternate names outside, sir.”

  That was offered as a bargain, and it intrigued him enough he gave himself over to the impulse. “Outside, then. You’ll need to help with the socks.”

  Sorting all of that out took a few minutes, including the time for her to go and claim a flask of tea and a few biscuits. When she came back pushing the basket chair, he managed to get himself into it with a minimum of fumbling. She was stronger than she looked, because once she started pushing, he was moving nearly as quickly as when Harry was steering him along.

  She navigated through the hall, out onto the stone-paved path. Then she took a turn, aiming not for the small courtyard outside his ward he’d expected, but into the main gardens of the Temple. It was still rather early for many flowers, the only ones coming up were the early bulbs, crocuses, a few primroses.

  He found being outside distracting, though he had to close his eyes against the sunlight. Logically, he knew it was spring, and not terribly strong, but compared to his room, it was far too bright and too sharp. It meant he had to rely on scent and the feel of the chair moving over the paving stones.

  There were softer smells, some kind of not very potent floral scent, but also what he thought must be medicinal plants or herbs. He couldn’t name them beyond the mint, herb lore had never been his strength, but he knew some of their scents from the kitchen gardens growing up.

  She pushed him rather far into the gardens, before she turned right. She finally slowed as she came to a paved stone area, and he could hear water burbling from what sounded like a small fountain. He could tell that he was in the shade now, and when he opened his eyes, he found that he was in a small grotto. A shrine was set into the wall and stone benches curved around the sides of the enclosure. She had parked him in the corner, where he could look to his left and see the shrine, or look out and see if anyone was coming.

  The shrine, though, that was more curious. There was a goddess depicted, not one he knew. She was wearing Roman robes, a snake coiled around her arm, a basket of eggs in her arms, and a small dog stretched out at her feet, looking up. He tilted his head, distracted by the image, trying to parse it.

  Nurse Morris asked, “Are you comfortable, sir?” />
  Roland considered, and decided he was, rather surprisingly. She’d put a cushion or something in the chair, he hadn’t noticed. The blanket was soft under his hands, and not too warm, and she’d parked him in the shade. The grotto walls meant he could look up, and not catch the sun. He nodded. “Thank you, yes.”

  “Just a moment, then, and we can have some tea and biscuits.” Without any other comment, she moved to the shrine. She put something in a small offering dish mounted by the fountain. Then she ran her hands through the water, cupping them together to catch some in her palms, then letting it flow again. She came back to take a seat on the bench, enough to be looking at him.

  “May I ask?” Roland gestured at the statue.

  “Sirona. I’m a Therapeutes of Sirona.” She said it as that should make many things clear to him, and it did not.

  “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t understand. They put me in a room, they didn’t exactly explain how the place works, beyond what I’ve sorted out by myself.” It came out rather testy, but she didn’t seem to take insult.

  “Oh.” She took a breath. “Let me pour the tea, then I’ll explain.” He got the sense she was putting him off for a minute, to gather her thoughts. But he was scarcely going to argue with having tea and biscuits, rather than healthy healing foods and plain water. Mind, he’d sell his soul for a bit of beer. She handed him a small metal cup with a wee handle, but easy enough for him to hold steadily. “Let me know when you want more.”

  He nodded, and inhaled the scent. Strong and black, bracingly refreshing. The few times he’d gotten tea with his meals, it had mostly been rather weak. He took a sip, then held it in his lap to cool a little. “When you’re ready.” He did his best to avoid making it an order.

  She let out a little sigh. “I trained here, but I haven’t served here for a decade or so. Healers and nurses, we make our vows by one of the healing deities. Which one depends on the person. I’m sure my da would have preferred I keep to chapel ways, and swear to Christ, but I’ve my mother’s line running stronger in me. Sirona’s a Gaulish healing goddess, Gaul and Brittany. But she’s got a care, particularly, for the slow healing. Recovery that takes time. The kind that takes food and patience, exercises and a bit of encouragement.” Then she unbent enough to add, “I always liked the dogs she’s shown with.”