The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Two: A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires. G.D. Falksen

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      Chapter Two

      Varanus’s clinic was located at the back of an only slightly derelict courtyard, known locally as Osborne Court, in the periphery between Spitalfields and the notorious Old Nichol. The place was tolerable but impoverished, filled with people who had largely resisted the worst urges of the criminal classes despite their destitute situation. Sadly, their desperate virtue only made them that much more susceptible to the criminal element in their part of the city. Like the rest of the East End, it was home to misery and hopelessness, which was precisely why Varanus had chosen it for her clinic.

      At her instruction—and payment—the inhabitants of the surrounding buildings had agreed to hang lanterns from their upper windows each night, and the courtyard was granted some small amount of illumination. It was enough for visitors to manage, though only just. The windows of the clinic were protected with metal shutters, which Ekaterine opened while Varanus unlocked the front door. Everything had to have locks, of course. It was no good maintaining a place of healing when any ruffian could burgle it during the daytime.

      The sign over the door read “Doctor Sauvage”, a necessary subterfuge given the nature of the work. Though she had cast off the trappings of mourning six months ago—the prescribed one year after the death of her father—it would not be seemly for Babette Varanus, the Lady Shashavani, to be seen in such a place, even—or perhaps especially—for the purpose of dispensing medical assistance to those in need. So she had invented her own private physician, Hippolyta Sauvage, to conceal her work. Fortunately, none of the people who had met Lady Shashavani would dare set foot in the vicinity of Osborne Court, and so she remained incognito.

      Once inside, Varanus and Ekaterine removed their hats and jackets and set about making the place ready in case any patients ventured in. Varanus had no house calls to make, which was good given their earlier delay, but it was not unusual for locals with medical complaints to visit during the first few evening hours. After midnight the visits grew far less common, but in contrast they became much more serious in nature. The only reason someone would venture out in such a place during the small hours of the morning would be the grave illness of a loved one or bodily harm that threatened death, and neither of those was uncommon in the East End.

      To call the building a clinic was somewhat charitable, more a reference to its purpose than its capacity. There was little space for patients to convalesce—only two beds in a rather small back room—and besides it was impossible for people to remain during daylight hours, when Varanus and Ekaterine had to attend to their public duties as women of means. But the front room, which had once been a shop, was nevertheless sufficient for its purpose. Serving as a surgery, it held the table that Varanus used for operations, some chairs for sitting, and a comfortable if somewhat worn sofa where patients could sit and rest before returning to their homes.

      Varanus checked their stock of supplies in the adjacent storeroom—also under lock and key—while Ekaterine lit a fire in the stove and began heating some water. With the aid of some half dozen oil lamps, the main room of the clinic was decently illuminated. Thanks especially to her improved vision, Varanus could perform the fine work of surgery and suturing under the rough conditions. It was certainly better than anyone in the neighborhood could have expected before her arrival.

      Ekaterine unlocked the desk in the main room of the surgery and opened the logbook that she kept, preparing a new entry for the night. Her knowledge of medicine was rudimentary at best, but she proved a meticulous secretary.

      They did not wait long for their first patient of the evening. After scarcely half an hour, the bell outside the front door rang. Ekaterine answered it and ushered in a pair of men who were supporting a third of their number between them. The supported man—a laborer named Bates as memory served—looked at her with pain in his expression and hobbled to one of the chairs, where he collapsed. His face was bruised, and blood was staining his shirt and one leg of his trousers. The other men were in a similar state.

      “And so it begins,” Ekaterine whispered in Svan, her native tongue.

      “It does indeed.”

      Varanus crossed to Bates and bid the other men to sit down—on chairs of course, for she saw no reason to risk them bleeding on the sofa.

      “Now then, Monsieur Bates,” she said, speaking with a flawless and completely natural Norman accent, “what ever has become of you? Come, come, lift up your shirt.”

      Bates did as he was bidden, wincing in pain with the movement. There, on his side, were a series of narrow cuts, scratches, and small punctures. They had bled a fair bit, but by now they were beginning to dry. Still, infection was rather likely.

      “And the leg?” Varanus asked.

      Bates СКАЧАТЬ