Read Online The Stress of Her Regard by Tim Powers - Free Book Online Page B

last street before the bridge. He turned right again at the next corner, and found himself, as the note had said, on Dean Street. He walked down to the narrow house that was number eight—it was right across the street from a Baptist chapel, another dubious omen—and obediently rattled the doorknocker. A headache had begun behind his eyes, and he was sweating heavily under his coat.
    As he waited on the cobblestones, he mentally reviewed Appleton's note. "Pretend to be a Medical Student," Appleton had written. "You're a bit old, but there are older. Be frankish about your Navy experience, for you could have been a Dresser to a Naval Surgeon without getting any Credentials, but be vague about questions touching on whose Lectures you are attending. It's unlikely that you will be recognized, but of course don't talk about Obstetrics. Henry Stephens will not press you for Answers once he knows that you are a Friend of mine, Nor will he let others do so."
    The door was pulled open by a sturdy young man who was shorter than Crawford. Crawford thought he looked more like a laborer than a medical student. His reddish-brown hair had obviously been pushed back from his forehead only a moment before.
    "Yes?" the young man said.
    "Is," said Crawford hoarsely, "uh, Henry Stephens at home?"
    "Not at the moment. Can I be of any help?"
    "Well . . . a friend of his told me I might be able to get a room here." Crawford leaned against the doorframe and tried not to pant. "Help pay for the joint sitting room, I think it was." His voice was hollow and rasping from his screaming this morning.
    "Oh." The young man stared at him for a moment, then swung the door open. "Uh, do come in. Tyrrell moved out a week ago, I guess you heard, and we could use the help. You're," he said dubiously, "another medical student?"
    "That's right." Crawford stepped forward into the warmth and lamplight, and sank into a chair. "My name is—" Belatedly he wondered what name to give. His mind was a blank—all he could remember was that in the note Appleton had said
Be frankish.
"—Michael Frankish."
    The young man seemed to find the name plausible. He held out his hand. "I'm John Keats—currently a student at Guy's Hospital, right around the corner. Are you at Guy's?"
    "Uh, no, I'm at . . . St. Thomas's." He was pleased with himself for having remembered the name of the hospital across the street from Guy's.
    Keats noticed the dark bandage on the stump of Crawford's finger then, and it seemed to upset him. "What—your finger! What happened?"
    A little flustered, Crawford said, "Oh, it—had to be amputated. Gangrene."
    Keats stared at him anxiously for a moment. "I gather you had a rough trip," he ventured finally as he closed the door. "Would a glass of wine sit well?"
    "Sit like corn upon the head of Solomon," said Crawford, too tired to bother with making sense. "Yes," he added, seeing Keats's bewildered look. "What area of medicine are you studying?" he went on hastily, speaking more loudly as Keats went into the next room.
    "Surgical and apothecary," came the answer. A moment later Keats reappeared with a half-full bottle and two glasses. "I'm going to the Apothecaries' Hall this Thursday to take the examinations, though I won't be able to practice until the thirty-first of October."
    Crawford took a filled glass and drank deeply. "What, Hallowe'en? I thought you said
surgical
, not witchcraftical."
    Keats laughed uncertainly, the look of anxiety returning to his face. "I become of age then; the thirty-first is my birthday. My—" He paused, for Crawford was staring at several knobby little bluish crystals on a bookshelf.
    "What," asked Crawford carefully, "are those?"
    A key rattled in the front door lock then, and a tall man opened the door and entered. He didn't look as young as Keats, and his face was leanly humorous.
    "Henry!" exclaimed the younger man with obvious relief, "this is Michael . . . Myrrh? . . ."
    "Michael, uh, Frankish," Crawford corrected,