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Authors: Cecilia Dominic
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whispering. She’d taken French in school and even practiced it a little with a neighbor, but someone nearby spoke these words with the confidence and fluidity of a native speaker—and the authority of a lecturer—and she could only pick out the occasional word. By the time her mind translated something, the voice had moved on to a different phrase, and she lost it.
Only one word stood out and repeated: hystérie .
A pressure on Claire’s forehead woke her completely, and sensations poured through her. A wave of concern roiling with curiosity gave way to triumph when she opened her eyes to the kind face of a bearded man. A spike of vindictiveness from somewhere behind him made her flinch away from him.
“Do not worry, Mademoiselle, you are safe ’ere,” the man who leaned over her said in English. The light blobs in the shadows behind him became faces of a hundred men and women looking down on her, and she screamed. Two men held her by the arms as she twisted and tried to escape, and the searing pain from their grasps made her gasp in agony.
“Don’t hold her like that, you idiots, remember she is injured, burned.”
She didn’t understand the words so much as the emotions behind them, and she met his eyes, pleading, “ S’il vous pla î t , Monsieur , have them release me.”
They did as he asked, and she pulled her arms to her chest and tried to curl away from the curious looks and the waves of feelings ranging from pity to lust. She only wore a nightdress and was covered by a sheet. Her hair hung loose and matted.
Dear god, where was she? Her own emotions rose to block the others, and she sobbed and screamed, anything to make it all go away. The two men who had tried to hold her down wheeled her stretcher away, and once the darkness of a corridor enveloped her and blocked the sensations from the theatre, she calmed herself to try to hear what they said. She translated what she could.
“Didn’t think he’d do it…”
“Been in a coma for a month…”
“Forgot about the burns…”
“Should never doubt Charcot…”
Charcot? Where am I? How did I get here? But she couldn’t get her mouth to form the words. All that happened when she did was a mewling sound, like a child.
One of them patted her on the shoulder, and she twisted away from the condescension in his voice and touch. “Do not worry, Mademoiselle, we have worse hysterics than you.”
The hallway ended in a bright ward, and a wave of confused and confusing feelings washed over Claire. She curled up tighter away from it all. Why did she experience all this?
What had happened to bring her here? All she could remember was flying into space, her hands and chest and neck burning. And before that, only images that tumbled through her mind too fast for her to grasp of any of them.
The two men lifted her onto a bed but thankfully kept the sheet wrapped around her. They disappeared, leaving her in a sea of disorientation. None of it made any sense. She knew she wasn’t from here—her mind wouldn’t tell her exactly where she did hail from—and that she didn’t speak the language natively, but she had learned some French along the way. Every time she thought she was close to a clue in her mind, it darted away more quickly than a rabbit into a hole.
Finally, she fell back into an exhausted sleep.
Chapter Seven
Distillery Hospital, 24 February 1871
That afternoon, Chad saw patients and was pleased to see that the infection on Bryce’s arm had subsided with the poultice he’d had the nurses place on the wound.
“Sometimes the country remedies work,” he said, and he didn’t bother to keep the relief out of his voice. “We won’t have to take this arm off today.”
Bryce grinned and flexed his fingers, which were almost back to their normal sizes. “Thank you, Doctor. How is Claire?”
Chad didn’t want to worry the boy—he knew all too well how mental stress could impact physical healing—but he didn’t want to lie,
Only one word stood out and repeated: hystérie .
A pressure on Claire’s forehead woke her completely, and sensations poured through her. A wave of concern roiling with curiosity gave way to triumph when she opened her eyes to the kind face of a bearded man. A spike of vindictiveness from somewhere behind him made her flinch away from him.
“Do not worry, Mademoiselle, you are safe ’ere,” the man who leaned over her said in English. The light blobs in the shadows behind him became faces of a hundred men and women looking down on her, and she screamed. Two men held her by the arms as she twisted and tried to escape, and the searing pain from their grasps made her gasp in agony.
“Don’t hold her like that, you idiots, remember she is injured, burned.”
She didn’t understand the words so much as the emotions behind them, and she met his eyes, pleading, “ S’il vous pla î t , Monsieur , have them release me.”
They did as he asked, and she pulled her arms to her chest and tried to curl away from the curious looks and the waves of feelings ranging from pity to lust. She only wore a nightdress and was covered by a sheet. Her hair hung loose and matted.
Dear god, where was she? Her own emotions rose to block the others, and she sobbed and screamed, anything to make it all go away. The two men who had tried to hold her down wheeled her stretcher away, and once the darkness of a corridor enveloped her and blocked the sensations from the theatre, she calmed herself to try to hear what they said. She translated what she could.
“Didn’t think he’d do it…”
“Been in a coma for a month…”
“Forgot about the burns…”
“Should never doubt Charcot…”
Charcot? Where am I? How did I get here? But she couldn’t get her mouth to form the words. All that happened when she did was a mewling sound, like a child.
One of them patted her on the shoulder, and she twisted away from the condescension in his voice and touch. “Do not worry, Mademoiselle, we have worse hysterics than you.”
The hallway ended in a bright ward, and a wave of confused and confusing feelings washed over Claire. She curled up tighter away from it all. Why did she experience all this?
What had happened to bring her here? All she could remember was flying into space, her hands and chest and neck burning. And before that, only images that tumbled through her mind too fast for her to grasp of any of them.
The two men lifted her onto a bed but thankfully kept the sheet wrapped around her. They disappeared, leaving her in a sea of disorientation. None of it made any sense. She knew she wasn’t from here—her mind wouldn’t tell her exactly where she did hail from—and that she didn’t speak the language natively, but she had learned some French along the way. Every time she thought she was close to a clue in her mind, it darted away more quickly than a rabbit into a hole.
Finally, she fell back into an exhausted sleep.
Chapter Seven
Distillery Hospital, 24 February 1871
That afternoon, Chad saw patients and was pleased to see that the infection on Bryce’s arm had subsided with the poultice he’d had the nurses place on the wound.
“Sometimes the country remedies work,” he said, and he didn’t bother to keep the relief out of his voice. “We won’t have to take this arm off today.”
Bryce grinned and flexed his fingers, which were almost back to their normal sizes. “Thank you, Doctor. How is Claire?”
Chad didn’t want to worry the boy—he knew all too well how mental stress could impact physical healing—but he didn’t want to lie,
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