Yusha walked to the entrance, her face hardened, donning the mask of the doctor she once was. She opened it and found a man drenched by the freezing rain, wearing the mud-caked livery of a royal messenger. Behind him, a black carriage shuddered, its lanterns flickering like dying stars.
“I’m looking for the man who rebuilds what others discard,” the messenger gasped, his gaze fixed on the interior of the warm cabin. “They say in the city that a ghost lives here. A ghost with the hands of a god.”
Yusha’s blood ran cold. “You’re looking for a beggar. I’m a simple man.”
“A simple man doesn’t perform a trepanation on a woodcutter’s son and save his life,” the messenger replied, stepping forward. “My master is in the carriage. He’s dying. If he breathes his last at your door, this house will be reduced to ashes before dawn.”
Zainab approached Yusha, her hand resting on his arm. She felt the frantic vibration of his pulse. “Who is the master?” she asked in a firm, cold voice.
“The Governor’s son,” whispered the messenger. “The brother of the girl who died in the Great Fire.”
The irony was a physical burden. The same family that had hunted Yusha down, that had reduced his life to ashes, was now huddled in a carriage at his doorstep, begging for the life of their heir.
“Don’t do it,” Zainab whispered as the messenger left to find the patient. “They’ll recognize you. They’ll hang you as soon as he’s stable.”
“If I don’t,” Yusha replied, her voice harsh and broken, “they’ll kill us both. And what’s more, Zainab… I’m a doctor. I can’t let a man bleed to death in the rain while I have a needle in my hand.”
They brought the young man inside, a youth barely nineteen years old, his face ashen and a shrapnel wound from a hunting accident festering in his thigh. The smell of gangrene filled the clean, herb-scented room, a fetid intrusion from the dying world.
Yusha worked in a feverish trance. She didn’t use the rudimentary tools of a village healer. She reached into a hidden compartment beneath the floorboards and pulled out a velvet roll of silver instruments: scalpels that reflected the firelight with a lethal flash.
Zainab acted as his shadow. She didn’t need to see the blood to know where to place the basin; she followed the sound of the dripping liquid and the heat of the infection. She moved with a silent, evocative precision, handing him silk threads and boiled water before he even asked.
“Move the lamp closer,” Yusha ordered, then corrected herself with a pang of guilt. “Zainab, I need you to put your weight on its pressure point. Here.”
He guided his hand to the boy’s groin, where the femoral artery throbbed like a trapped bird. As he pressed, the boy’s eyes snapped open. He looked up, not at the doctor, but at Zainab.
“An angel,” croaked the child, his voice thick with delirium. “Am I… in the garden?”
“You are in the hands of fate,” Zainab replied gently.
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