Chapter 2
Two
Cavities
Dorotèa followed after Oste like a duckling—albeit a rather tall one, even compared to her fellow ladies—dressed up in light blue down.
It was a shade that she didn’t think suited her hair color, but she only had so many outfits suited for light labor considering her status didn’t really require such work.
She scanned his gait more than she paid attention to her surroundings; at one point she had bumped into a side table, and seconds later into a matron who scowled in blue-eyed objection.
It didn’t change Dorotèa’s objective. She was going to make Oste back into what he once was, no matter what; because all she wanted out of life now was the righteous chance to drive a sword towards his body.
Dorotèa was a simple woman—or so she told herself.
She narrowed her eyes at Oste’s legs. They’d been perfectly good ones, which she knew well after having seen him gallivanting around the city or skipping away from her blade on uneven terrain.
His body matched his mannerisms—flighty but reliable; and sturdy, with an average bulk that gravitated towards the areas he put to most use.
It had always been most obvious in his calves, Dorotèa thought, which she found most agreeable.
He’d always been good at twisting and pushing off his heel to drive forward or, adversely, in a bid to scamper back and away.
Recalling that made her concentrate hard on the fall of his heels and the space his body took up beneath his dark hose.
The hose had slightly more prominent wrinkles than they ought to.
An extra centimeter or two of space, if she had to guess, save for that by his politely discreet codpiece; she was certain a loss of weight didn’t extend to a fellow’s manhood.
His footfalls were somewhat crooked as well, but Dorotèa had taken notice of that weeks before.
Walking behind him only made it more noticeable now; Oste put more weight on the inside of his left foot than he had previously, angled it out perhaps two or three centimeters off its typical inside track.
Now, if she could get next to him, watch how he extended that knee—
Dorotèa walked right into Oste with a resounding, “Oof!”
The physician looked over his shoulder at her and raised a brow. Dorotèa smiled, not only as an apology, but due to the glee of being able to note internally that his back was very straight, very firm, and very unpleasant to bash her face into. Excellent. He’d get passing marks for that.
“Did you catch that?” Oste asked, forehead so creased she noticed a wrinkle more than was typical for his everyday concern.
Dorotèa felt a chill race down her own spine. She’d already erred and missed something. Her task could very well be squandered now. Her heart raced, she loathed to admit.
“Uh—erm—”
Oste waved a hand. “Never mind. This place was a lot to take in my first time, too.”
She blinked, surprised at once by his immediate patience. She granted that he did spend hours dealing with belligerent families and guiding students as needed, but she didn’t expect such a teacherly tone coming on so quickly after her blunder and his disdain at her being here.
“What I was saying,” Oste continued, “is that the students will be quite displeased by your accompanying me. Today, you are a witness. Beyond that, if there is such a beyond, you are exactly as you are. Confraternity help. Charity.”
Dorotèa drew her brows up, but Oste immediately resumed walking. “They won’t like it?”
“If they notice? No, not at all.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“Because they have unbridled jealousy of anyone who gets to see a person’s insides as well as their outsides,” Oste drawled. “Speaking from experience, myself. But… yes, also because you’re a woman—and not a student, either.”
Dorotèa had heard that one so many times that she didn’t even feel a pang of anything when Oste voiced it.
The university in Aix, nestled in the Bourg district, was as renowned as it was hotly pursued by inquisitive minds.
Studying there was a goal for most anyone, and it hadn’t occurred to her until too old an age that no matter how hard she worked or how clever she seemed, she’d not get the chance to attend herself.
Her older brother had been born for the forge and aspired to make swords for the aristocracy, as their father did, but when her other brother set his mind on law and got himself a scholarship, bitterness bloomed in her chest.
Her father had sounded so distant when he lectured her on the limitations of her sex, then wrapped up that festering parcel with a pat on her shoulder that stank of pity.
It was the first time she ever cursed her sex, too.
“I could disguise myself as one,” Dorotèa offered, half-serious, but Oste laughed in response.
“I don’t think that would do.”
It’s gotten you more than enough!
Dorotèa quickly nipped her gritting teeth in the bud and repeated internally to herself that she was calm, composed, and pleasant.
Occasionally, that was. Merde!
Dorotèa attempted to quiet her footfalls along the final stretch up to a closed door on the first floor.
A young man was just leaving it, but he came to a halt when he noticed Oste, and ran a hand through his somewhat dampened hair.
The boy’s gaze fell on Dorotèa, who awkwardly forced a smile that showed too much of her teeth.
He darted his attention back onto Oste, who she assumed was one of his superiors, and straightened his posture to assert it.
“Lenault,” Oste began, “I do not recall you having business in the morgue today.”
The young man, who appeared to be ‘Lenault’, blanched. “The director left his notebook in there, Docteur Lézin. That was my only business. Though, I heard someone’s been hung, and is to be brought here for us to have a peek at some point today—”
“Did you find the notebook?” Oste asked behind narrowed eyes.
Lenault raised the leather tome and swallowed. “Yes. Did Maistre al-Anezi find you, Docteur?”
“Al-Anezi?”
“He asked me on the night shift if you were in, by any chance, and I told him you weren’t. He didn’t look surprised by it, but he doesn’t tend to reach out unless he needs a word, so…”
Oste tilted his head. “Ah. I’ll seek him out, then.”
“If you’re going into the morgue now, though, maybe there’s something I can help with?”
Dorotèa bit back her laughter; Oste had been on the nose, but he stayed perfectly still and nonplussed.
“Yes, actually.”
Lenault brightened until Oste kept speaking.
“When you bring that book to the director, which I hope you’ll get done quickly, I’ll need for you to pass along that I will be using a corner in there for a private autopsy, and I’ll need to be undisturbed for two hours or so.
You know how the gentry can be; they barely like my own eyes seeing their kin like that, but some things need doing, and physicians who know the process are hard to come by.
If you want to do more work like this yourself, sit in on the anatomists and surgeons—al-Anezi, for instance. ”
“I do! I try to,” Lenault remarked, but peered at Dorotèa again. “Who is she…?”
“A family friend who kindly offered to serve as a witness,” said Oste without missing a beat. Dorotèa was impressed. “Perhaps we’d not have need of such roles if students weren’t so over-keen to explore their passions with their fingers.”
“It’s good to have limits, now and again,” Dorotèa added quietly.
Lenault squinted at her brooch. “You’re Saint-Mitre too?”
“I am.”
“She is,” Oste affirmed, “so you can imagine my confidence in her fulfilling her role.”
“Well, good on that!” Lenault remarked with a quick bow. “I’ve seen plenty of ladies swoon in just the surgical theater—but I’ll see to your request.”
The student walked off, and Dorotèa felt her body stiffen. She wanted to slide her foot out and make him catch it on his way out, but held herself in place. It was better to simply pray he found a minor inconvenience later, like a rock in a shoe or a wobbly desk chair.
Dorotèa caught a meager frown on Oste’s face when he followed Lenault’s trajectory out.
It was such a sliver of displeasure, but she held onto it, tightened her hold on it.
She knew as well as anyone in the confraternity that he was no stranger to passing commentary, in his case on his own voyageur blood; people were hardly partial to the Roma of France, even if he and his mother’s side had publicly denied any connection.
She gave herself hope that he noticed and reacted to that tiny piece of commentary on her own identity because he was kindred. Because he knew.
And kindred was how she always felt when they’d gone and crossed blades.
Oste spirited Dorotèa inside. She quickly scanned the chilly room, dim as it was, and felt it was about what she expected.
A handful of empty tables lined the room, one already occupied by a lump covered with a discolored sheet.
It had a slight smell, too, which brought out irritated grumbling from her doctor companion about how ‘the fellow was supposed to be gone by now’, and that they ‘needed to summon the city gravediggers if the family didn’t get on with picking him up, as promised, by noon’.
Various jars and baubles lined the walls and glass-windowed cabinets, which Dorotèa thoughtfully looked over and almost wandered to before she remembered herself.
She could identify hardly any of the samples or containers of what she presumed to be alchemicals or medicines, but felt her curiosity brewing and compelling her to ask after each and every one.
She stilled her tongue out of pity for Oste, who doubtless had to answer the same questions for multitudes of students or grieving family members day after day.
Neither was it the time for inquiries. He had a body on his nice folding table, after all.
“I’m doing a few preparations,” said Oste, “and then we’ll bring her here on a stretcher.”
“Works for me.”