It had happened within seconds. He’d looked up to make certain Pandora had crossed the short distance to the carriage. Instead, he’d seen Dragon fighting his way through the crowd and running full-bore toward the corner of the building, where Pandora was standing with an unfamiliar woman. The woman had been pulling something from her sleeve, and he’d seen the telltale shake of her arm as she flipped open a folding knife. The short blade had flashed in the reflected theater lights as she’d raised it.
Gabriel had reached Pandora just a second after Dragon, but by that point the knife blade had already driven downward.
“Wouldn’t it be strange if I died from this?” Pandora chattered, trembling against his chest. “Our grandchildren wouldn’t be at all impressed. I’d rather have been stabbed while doing something heroic. Rescuing someone. Maybe you could tell them . . . oh, but . . . I s’pose we wouldn’t have grandchildren if I died, would we?”
“You’re not going to die,” Gabriel said shortly.
“I still haven’t found a printer,” Pandora fretted.
“What?” he asked, thinking she was delirious.
“This might delay my production schedule. My board game. Christmas.”
Winterborne, who was sitting with Helen in the opposite seat, interrupted gently. “There’s still time for that, bychan. Don’t worry about your game.”
Pandora relaxed and subsided, her fist closing in a fold of Gabriel’s shirt like a baby’s.
Winterborne glanced at Gabriel, seeming to want to ask something.
On the pretext of smoothing Pandora’s hair, Gabriel settled his palm gently over her good ear, and gave the other man a questioning glance.
“Was the blood spurting?” Winterborne asked softly. “As if in time to a heartbeat?”
Gabriel shook his head.
Winterborne relaxed only marginally, rubbing the lower half of his jaw.
Removing the hand from Pandora’s ear, Gabriel continued to stroke her hair, and saw that her eyes had closed. He propped her up slightly higher. “Darling, don’t go to sleep.”
“I’m cold,” she said plaintively. “And my shoulder hurts, and Helen’s carriage is lumpy.” She made a pained sound as the vehicle turned a corner and jolted.
“We’ve just turned onto Cork Street,” he said, kissing her cool, damp forehead. “I’m going to carry you inside, and they’ll give you some morphine.”
The carriage stopped. As Gabriel lifted Pandora with care and brought her into the building, she felt terrifyingly light in his arms, as if her bones were hollow like a bird’s. Her head rested on his shoulder, rolling slightly as he walked. He wanted to pour his own strength into her, fill her veins with his blood. He wanted to beg, bribe, threaten, hurt someone.
The interior of the building had recently been renovated, with a well-ventilated and brightly lit entrance. They went through a set of self-closing doors to a large block of rooms identified with neatly lettered signs, including an infirmary, a dispensary, administrative offices, consulting and examination rooms, and an operating room at the end of a long corridor.
Gabriel had already been aware that Winterborne employed two full-time physicians for the benefit of the hundreds of men and women who worked for him. However, the best doctors usually attended upper-class patients, whereas the middle and working class had to make do with practitioners of lesser talent. Gabriel had vaguely envisioned a set of shabby offices and a mediocre surgery, occupied by a pair of indifferent physicians. He should have known that Winterborne would have spared no expense in building an advanced medical facility.
They were met in the surgery lobby by a middle-aged physician with a shock of white hair, a broad brow, penetrating eyes, and a handsomely craggy face. He looked exactly how a surgeon should look, capable and dignified, with decades’ worth of knowledge earned by vast experience.
“St. Vincent,” Winterborne said, “this is Doctor Havelock.”
A slender brown-haired nurse strode briskly into the lobby area, waving away Winterborne’s attempt at introductions. She was dressed in a divided skirt and wore the same kind of white linen surgeon’s gown and cap as Havelock. Her face was young and clean-scrubbed, her green eyes sharp and assessing.
“My lord,” she said to Gabriel without preamble, “please bring Lady St. Vincent this way.”
He followed her into an examination room, which was brilliantly lit with surgical lamps and reflectors. It was also immaculately clean, the walls lined with glass plates, the floor paved with glazed tiles and scored with gutters to divert liquid. Chemicals scented the air: carbolic acid, distilled alcohol, and a hint of benzene. Gabriel’s gaze swept across an assortment of metal vessels and apparatus for steam sterilizing, tables bearing washbasins and trays of instruments, and a stoneware sink.
“My wife is in pain,” he said curtly, glancing over his shoulder and wondering why the doctor hadn’t accompanied them.
“I’ve already prepared a hypodermic of morphine,” the nurse replied. “Has she eaten during the past four hours?”
“No.”
“Excellent. Lay her gently on the table, please.”
Her voice was clear and decisive. It grated a bit, her authoritative manner, the surgeon’s cap, the way she seemed to be posturing as a doctor.
Although Pandora had compressed her lips tightly, a whimper broke from her as Gabriel settled her onto the leather table. It had been constructed with moveable framework, and was positioned to elevate the upper body slightly. The nurse whisked away the coat draped over Pandora’s blood-soaked white lace bodice and covered her with a flannel blanket.