Chapter 18
Gwendolynne
By Tuesday morning, I’m nearly climbing out of my skin, so I go to class despite being not quite one hundred percent.
Today, I’ve been rostered onto hospital duty, along with Pen Ferguson, Conall Peters, and Isla Ennis. Heloise is doing consultations, and Tuesdays are open clinics, which means no scheduled appointments—clients can walk in at any time.
There aren’t too many patients in hospital today.
Which is lucky, because Professor Kaur’s recovered from her mystery illness and has stopped by to deliver our fortnightly tutorial.
Even though she’s the dean, she still finds time to be in the clinics at least once every two weeks—“Just to keep an eye on things,” as she likes to joke.
It’s worlds apart from the vice dean, Professor Pickering, who almost never descends from his temperature-controlled second-floor office.
Lenny, the dean’s German shepherd, who is both a familiar and a guide dog, stays close by Professor Kaur’s side.
The only other dog in hospital is a Labrador who ate an entire pan of brownies laced with an invisibility tincture.
We’d made him vomit, of course, and he was fortunately unaffected by the chocolate.
But the magic absorbed too quickly into his bloodstream for us to save him from the effects of the spell.
He’s spent the morning periodically popping in and out of visibility, which has made for some instances of high-key panic from the staff.
It’s lucky Professor Kaur is so perennially unflappable. Even when the invisible dog slips past us and escapes, she somehow manages to catch him and usher him back into his cage. I guess she doesn’t need to “see” him, relying instead on other senses to know where, exactly, he is.
She really is so incredibly competent.
In the cat ward, there’s just one patient, a Ragdoll who has been vomiting up tiny, real-life frogs for the past few days.
The dean takes the opportunity to refresh us on how paradoxical aciduria develops in patients with gastric vomiting—a phenomenon that always makes perfect sense when she explains it, but precisely zero fucking sense later.
The cat is booked in for an abdominal ultrasound; until then, every now and then, we have to run around the ward with nets, catching dozens of hopping amphibians.
“Well, this is tiresome,” Isla whines the third time we have to catch the frogs. “Why can’t the cleaners do it? This really is not contributing to our education.”
Tell her I’m happy to eat some, Percy says, speaking through our bond.
I’d left him back in my room, curled up inside the filthy cardboard box that the hideously expensive leopard-print cat bed I’d purchased came in.
I mean, look at me: I am starving. I am the most starvingest cat of all the world’s starving cats—
You have an entire bowl of kibble, I point out, while Percy’s words taper off into a grumble. Plus, I fed you two breakfasts this morning.
“The cleaners are a little busy.” Conall deftly catches three frogs at once and tips them into a lidded bucket.
“The invisible dog keeps escaping and pooping all over the wards. Anyway, isn’t it good we’re getting practice with our frog-handling skills?
” Frogs are common both as familiars and for use in spells, so what Conall says is true.
He’s always trying to see the bright side of things.
Even though I can tell that he is still mourning Gary, he’s putting on a brave face.
“Mr. Peters is right.” Professor Kaur scoops up another of the frogs with her net. “Miss Ennis, do try to see this as a learning opportunity.”
Isla rolls her eyes, retreats into the corner, and starts scrolling on her strap. Conall and I raise our eyebrows at each other. There’s no way either of us would ever dream of disrespecting the dean in such a way.
But Isla doesn’t really have to worry, does she? Just like Harrisford, she grew up disgustingly wealthy—which explains why now, as an adult, she’s such an entitled little witch.
When we’ve finally finished catching the frogs, I start taping down the lid of Conall’s bucket. It’s as I’m poking more holes in the lid for ventilation that Pen opens their mouth, daring to utter the sacrilegious word that no veterinary student should ever say.
“How weird is this?” they muse, staring at the rows of empty cages. “The fact that it’s so qu—”
Conall and I both leap at them, exactly at the same time. Conall even scrambles over a table in an effort to stop Pen from saying the Q word:
Quiet. One should never, ever say that it’s quiet.
It’s just inviting trouble.
Conall, having better reflexes and just generally being more physically competent, reaches Pen first, clamping his hand over Pen’s still-half-open mouth and smearing their fuchsia lipstick.
But it’s too late. The rest of the word has already slipped out, and the three of us stare at each other in abject horror. This is it; we’ve done it. We’ve invoked the wrath of the gods.
And right on cue, Heloise bursts through the door.
“I’m admitting a cat,” she says, panting slightly, as though she’s actually run from the consult rooms. This hospital is so old, the hallways so convoluted, that it’s honestly extremely impractical.
“Matilda. Sixteen years old, female, neutered, Norwegian Forest Cat. Has been flat for three days and started vomiting around twenty-four hours ago. Owner presented her moribund. There’s been two, maybe three months of increased drinking. ”
I peek into the carrier at the fluffy cat lying, completely immobile, on one side. Straightaway, we all jump into action.
Pen starts setting up a fluid bag and Conall cuts several small lengths of tape. Meanwhile, I gently lift the cat out, settle her on top of a clean blanket on the treatment room table, and quickly check her over.
“Hey, are you okay?” Heloise moves closer and touches me on the arm.
“Yeah,” I whisper back. Pen and Conall have finished setting up the fluids, so I grab clippers to shave a patch of fur from the cat’s foreleg. “Are you okay?”
“You wouldn’t even know I got hurt,” she says, grinning. “Except that my left tibia tingles when it’s humid.”
I give her a quick smile back, and Heloise mouths Good luck before heading back out the door.
Like a well-oiled machine, Conall, Pen, and I place a fluid line with no issues and start rehydrating the cat. After the flurry of activity, we still for a moment, catching our breaths and thinking about what to do next.
I glance at Isla. She’s still absorbed with something on her strap, and I scowl. Since we’re all working on the hospital wards together, she’ll get at least baseline credit for whatever we do.
It can’t be helped, though. We need to figure out what’s wrong with the poor cat so that we can save her life. At least Professor Kaur will know, since she’s still here typing something on the hospital computer.
“What do we do, Gwen?” Pen nervously smooths an escaped curl of red hair back into their ponytail. “She’s really, really sick.”
“Yeah, she is,” I say, and frown. Old cats that come in like this can have any number of issues—kidney problems, diabetes, liver issues, cancer. I recommence my examination, carefully checking Matilda’s mouth for any ulcers, her abdomen for any masses, her gums for any signs of paleness.
Despite his earlier gripes about not letting him eat the frogs, Percy helps me to channel magic via our connection, allowing me to also assess Matilda’s qì. There’s nothing obvious except that her life force is waning. Something on the inside, then.
“We need to do some bloods,” I say. “As well as measure her magic levels.” I pause for a moment to check her bladder, then add, “I’m pretty sure there’s enough urine to collect a sample.” I glance at Professor Kaur, who’s listening avidly to our discussion.
Pen clutches the blood tubes that they’ve gathered tighter. “You do it, Gwen. You’re best at blood draws.”
Pen gets really anxious, something that Conall, Heloise, and I are trying to help them get past. I hand the syringe over to them, instead. “It’s your turn,” I say. I want the dean to see Pen do it. Conall nods his agreement with fervent enthusiasm.
“Are you sure?” Pen chews their lip, uncertain.
“They didn’t hit the vein last time,” Isla says from her corner, finally noticing what’s going on at exactly the worst possible moment. She still hasn’t looked up from her screen.
“Oh, shut up, Isla,” Conall snaps, and Isla flips her blond hair over one shoulder and smirks at him. She must have really riled him up, since he never gets cross at anyone.
Pen takes their position, with me restraining the cat and Conall hovering, ready to hand Pen the tubes. As Pen uncaps the syringe, someone else walks through the door.
I immediately sense his arrival, not only because I can smell his cologne, but also because I’ve become weirdly, annoyingly attuned to the presence of Harrisford Briggs.
He strides into the cat ward like he owns the place, even though he’s a myth.creat student and shouldn’t even be in the mag.fam wards. I straighten, my head whipping around, about to tell him to shove off, when he takes a deep sniff and then exhales.
“Who has ketoacidosis?” he says.
“I…what?” I snap, scrunching up my nose. “What the hell are you doing here, Briggs—”
He takes a step closer, his eyes glittering under the magelights. “Diagnosing your patient, Chan.” He gestures toward the cat. “It’s DKA. Can’t you smell it?”
I curl my hands into fists. Isla’s finally raised her head, a wry smile on her lips, and Conall and Pen are watching us with a mixture of dismay and curiosity. And Harrisford? Harrisford is staring at nothing but me, looking mighty fucking pleased with himself.
“I can’t,” I say, my nostrils flaring. I force myself to take a deep breath. In, then out.