Chapter 9 #2
Balac stared back, dumbfounded. The two men locked gazes for a long moment, and the director shattered it by reaching out again and leaving his hand on Oste’s head for longer.
He ran his thumb along the tan surface of his skin, then jerked Oste’s wrist up to feel his pulse.
He was surprised by how little he minded being animated, actually.
He finally felt tired, and realized, too, how little air he felt he was consuming in the warm room.
Warm? No, hot. Too hot. Balac’s discriminating intent felt like it was coming from so far away.
“My God,” the director mumbled.
“Directeur.” Oste’s voice had quieted and taken on the rasp of a man freshly woken or near asleep. “If I may, I think I’d prefer to retire first to my office. I think a wink of sleep would do me better than going off now under the sun.”
“I think that’s wise.” Oste swore he heard a sliver of hesitation in the old man’s voice, which if true, was something rare. “I’ll walk with you.”
They slipped out the door together and started the walk down the hall. One woman passed them, then another. Oste thought he saw another waiting at the end against the wall with luminous chestnut hair.
“Dorotèa?” Oste murmured.
Balac gripped his arm. “Keep walking, Lézin.”
“A–ah—” he choked and tried to jerk it back. “Not so tight—”
“Lézin, I’m hardly touching you.”
“I…” he started, but the woman ahead opened her mouth to speak.
He didn’t hear her voice pestering him, the one he struggled to admit how much he adored.
Instead, he watched as blood poured from it and trailed down her throat.
He twitched and planted his feet. “Oh, boudiou,” he breathed. “No, no, no.”
“Lézin!”
Oste heard hooves on cobblestones. The loud crack of a musket. Falling snow. Himself falling. An explosion of pain. Red hair in his dreams, all the way down…
“Directeur,” he whispered, “I do not feel right.”
He did not feel anything at all when his consciousness waned and he slipped to the floor.
Dorotèa smoothed out the dress she’d chosen for herself after running both their tarnished outfits to the launders at dawn.
It was a newer one, forest green and cream with slashed sleeves in her favorite style.
She’d been lucky to get a few hours of sleep while Oste ran off to the morgue, and though she thought the idea of heading straight into duty sounded tiresome at best and disastrous at worst, she’d let him go.
She let him go, because she knew she’d have done the same and was fatigued by her hypocrisy for once in her life.
He’d do that, and then he’d rest, and she’d make sure of that. God, it drove her mad, how one man could manage doing too much and absolutely nothing in tandem.
But he’d find balance again. He’d find joy. She’d make sure of that.
She put away his fresh clothing, vaguely amused at the cleaning bill he ran up with how frequently he had to have his work clothes cleaned.
They were often tarnished from unmentionables, which brought in yet another premium increase.
Still, there was no sense being troubled by it; Oste never seemed to have a shortage of money when he gave it to her for his errands.
Her suspicions arose that his secretive printing endeavors did better than he ever claimed they did, even though his pay as a physician was already lucrative.
When Dorotèa paid, she was glad to have numbers to run in her head and occupy it, and glad, too, that she thought the floor could use a sweep and tea to steep for when he got back.
Elderberry syrup and chamomile mingled in a glass bottle, which she allowed to cool.
The heat didn’t always allow hot tea to be pleasant.
Tea. Sweeping. Laundry. She wanted anything to focus on but Frances for only a moment.
Anything but her dead stare up at the stars, with hair combed too painstakingly carefully for her to not have been prideful of it in life.
Oste thought she was a second victim, and Dorotèa believed it too.
A blade had done the dirty work this time.
But what if this girl knew how to use one, too?
Dorotèa’s eyes drifted off to the bundle of things she brought with her to Oste’s lodgings.
Her bag, always too large to be fashionable, cradled the mask and garb of an anonymous duelist. And though she was rarely so bold as to sneak her blade out with her under her overly long cloak without being dressed for infamy, she’d at least wrapped it up and brought it along.
The dagger she tucked daily into her clothing didn’t feel adequate today.
Her chores stretched on and occupied too much time, even for a busy morning.
She moved slowly through her paces, and Oste did too, it seemed.
He ought to have been back by now, if not when she’d arrived with the laundry.
It brought out a hint of annoyance; damn that man for letting her stew for so long.
She wanted to be distracted by his countenance and too-wonderful face.
And it was, wasn’t it? He was a good-looking fellow, as far as fellows went.
She’d not paid much attention on account of it having nothing to do with his skill with a sword.
God above! She found him handsome.
And damn it all! The girls faced injustices that she knew how to temper.
Both realizations hit her at once, and she tilted her head back and groaned.
“Merde!” Dorotèa cried out to the ceiling.
What she felt she wanted to—no, needed to do was plain as day.
It was surely more important than her sorry inkling of ill-timed attraction.
“I’ll teach girls with or without help.”
Her resolve was short-lived. Dorotèa jumped when a heavy fist pounded on the door to Oste’s room, and not from his hand. She lunged for her folded cloak at once and started to reach for her rapier. If someone was here to take her or rob him, she would skewer them.
“Who’s there?” Dorotèa demanded while she snatched her rapier from its hiding place and pointed it towards the door. It then occurred to her it might be one of the Panatiers, but she didn’t drop her weapon regardless.
A muffled voice came from the other side. The banging continued. “Mademoiselle Galoup? Mademoiselle Galoup, are you in there? Is that you?”
She gritted her teeth. “That depends on who’s asking!”
“Err, Docteur Lézin? On his behalf? I’ve come from the hospital.”
Dorotèa drew her brows together and set the rapier back down. “Oh. One moment, please.”
She flung her fallen cloak back over the top of it, then tucked her locks of hair back into place.
Once she felt she wasn’t tragically frumpy even by her standards, she crossed to the door and opened it.
She was surprised to find the medical student from her first day, Lenault, on the other side.
He was red in the cheeks and sweating. The little upstart must’ve made haste despite the heat.
“What is it?” Dorotèa asked.
“I…” the young man started. He looked her up and down. “I was sent to make sure you weren’t dead.”
Her head recoiled. “Was I expected to be?”
“Well, no.”
“Why would I be dead?”
“It’s not—I mean, it isn’t—”
Dorotèa narrowed her eyes and cut him off. “Why would the doctor fear I’m dead and not come himself?”
“He…” Lenault quieted and linked his hands in front of him. He hung his head, which gave her a sense of foreboding. “He was frightened of it, and it was some raving nonsense, but better to… simply… put him at ease regardless.”
“Why isn’t he here?” Dorotèa snapped.
Lenault’s throat quivered from the force of his gulp. “He is ill, Mademoiselle.”
Dorotèa heard Oste’s words mocking her as she hulked over to her shoes and started to pull them on. Legs before head. Getting to him was the only important matter in her life at once.
“I just saw him,” she said, breathless. “How—? You will take me to him.”
“I don’t know if that’s permitted.”
Dorotèa hit her chest with her palm. “Permit this!”
The medical student made a labored squeaking noise, which she ignored. Dorotèa scooped up her bag and promptly slung it over her shoulder. It bumped into Lenault’s arm when she bullied her way past him and into the hall.
“Mademoiselle—”
“I’m going with or without you, Monsieur!”
With, it turned out, because he relented and led the way.