A door swung open, revealed a sterilization room, made over from what might once have been a music room. Splintered parquet, chipped putti near the ceiling. Syringes in boiling water, an old table, probably dragged up from the kitchen. A hodgepodge of fine furniture, raveling upholstery. A coal fire in the fireplace. Laura felt a little puff of warmth on her face, even from the doorway. Jones’s unmistakable American voice was berating an orderly in heavily accented French:
“My knee,” he said. “I left it here, just there, on the table, in a saucepan. Where is it?”
Laura felt her brows climb. She still wanted to sit down.
“Your—knee, Monsieur?” stammered the orderly.
“Yes, yes,” said Jones. “Just there. I meant to seethe off the flesh—some very interesting…”
The orderly murmured something.
“A leg of mutton.A leg of mutton?” said Jones. “You mistook my knee for a leg of mutton? It was the perfect specimen! Such an interesting presentation of the anterior ligaments.”
Mary spoke right behind Laura, who jumped. “You didn’t eat it, I hope, Colas,” she called sternly to the orderly.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Laura.
Jones stepped out of the sterilization room. She hadn’t misremembered the flat American voice, the bony face, the fine eyes. “I am sorry about your specimen,” Laura said.
“So am I,” said Jones. “And you may stop thinkingghoulat me, Iven;Ididn’t eat it. How’s your chest? Take your dress off.”
“In the sterilization room,” said Mary, herding them.
Laura obediently undid her dress, shrugged it off her shoulders. Jones put his icy stethoscope to Laura’s back in several points. Her chest still hurt. “Do I have you to thank for my recovery, Doctor?” asked Laura, trying to be cordial.
Cordiality was wasted on him. “Yes, of course. Me and a reasonable constitution.” He stepped back. “You’ll do, if you eat properly and don’t get chilled. Get dressed and let me see your hands.”
Her shoulders went rigid. Letting him examine her hands was much harder than taking her dress off. “My hands are all right.”
“You have considerable scarring,” said Jones clinically. “And you will almost certainly be arthritic in the next five years. Let me see.”
“I’mnot an amputated knee,” said Laura.
“You’d argue less if you were,” said Jones. He put out one of his own hands. Long fingers, perfectly kept nails. Jaw set, Laura put her hand in his. He manipulated the scar tissue, tested the range of motion.
“Well, the damage is done,” Jones said, letting them go. “A shame. You’ll want to massage them every night, so the scars don’t stiffen further. With lanolin, or beeswax.Canyou assist in surgery?”
“Yes,” returned Laura, hating the way his black eyes covered the wreck of her fingers.
“All right,” he said. “Join me on rounds, will you? If you’re up to it?” He let go her hands, and was out the door.
Laura said a very bad word.
“It’s just his way,” said Mary. “Weak in the bedside manner.”
“I am not in bed anymore. And I have a credential or two. How does he think I got the scars on my hands? Not lounging around a civilian hospital.”
Mary said, “Iven, you may rant to me all you like, but I beg you will attempt to tolerate Jones. In the interest of harmony. Highly qualified American surgeons do not simply fall from the sky, you know.”
“Never mind him anyway,” said Laura, mastering herself. “Shouldn’t we discuss inadvertent cannibalism amongst your staff instead?”
Mary snorted. “I don’t want to know. Do you?”
“Not particularly.” Laura flexed her hands, trying to erase the sensation of Jones’s grip. “How is Pim?”
“Thriving,” said Mary. “The men think she’s their earthly angel. Come this way. I’ll show you about. I need you taking a shift as soon as ever you can. They are saying the Germans are going to try to break the line at Ypres and sweep us toward the sea.”
Laura said nothing. Four years and how many million lives, and they could lose it all now. And then she thought,Time, I just need time…
