Read Online Tortured by Caragh M. O'brien - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Caragh M. O'brien
Ads: Link
she arranged near Myrna’s shoulder.
“Put the bowl there, and stay out of my way,” Myrna said, directing Mabrother Cho. “You, too, Masister. No hovering.”
Leon was slouched forward, elbows on the table, and when Myrna immersed his hand in the bowl, blood immediately began to seep into the warm water, turning it red.
“You’re reported to have a great bedside matter, Masister,” Leon said. “Where’s that tonight?”
“That’s only for patients I don’t care about,” Myrna said.
Yet when she began cleaning the wound, her touch was gentle and sure. He winced when she snipped away a dangling bit of torn skin, and blotted at the blood with a cloth. Then she hitched the lamp nearer. “It’s a clean amputation at least,” she said.
“Glad you think so,” Leon said. He refused to turn his mind back to how it had happened.
Myrna peered at it closely again, tilting her face as she inspected it from every angle, and then she folded Leon’s undamaged fingers down into a fist, keeping his wounded one extended over a clean towel.
“Mabrother Cho,” Myrna said. “I need you to hold his arm. Here.”
Startled, Leon tensed as the chef pinned his forearm securely against the table.
“You don’t want to watch this,” Myrna said, tightening her grip around his finger.
Before Leon could argue, she took her hot scalpel from over the flame and pressed the flat side of it firmly against his raw fingertip, cauterizing the flesh with a sharp sizzling noise. The sensation knocked Leon backward and he would have fallen except that Mabrother Cho kept his arm pinned to the table. A pungent, burning scent soured the air.
“Thank you,” Myrna said curtly to Mabrother Cho. “You can let him go.”
She set her scalpel aside.
“Are you done?” Leon asked, breathless with pain.
The doctor was frowning in concentration, examining his finger again. “Yes,” she said. “With this at least. Let’s see your back.”
She released his hand. He curled his fingers slowly toward himself, scrutinizing the seared end of his finger. The burned tissue was damaged in a controlled, scarlet burn, the bleeding had stopped, and the skin at the edges had singed to a tender brown. His pulse was still hammering in his veins but the pain, oddly, was deadening a little, as if the nerves to his fingertip, which before had been ragged and shrill, now were short-circuited. The significance struck him for the first time: his wedding ring finger had been deliberately stunted, as if he’d never make a fit husband.
“Ouch,” he said softly.
“Change your mind yet about the morphine?” Myrna asked. “I could put you out for a couple hours.” She put a light dressing on his finger to keep it clean.
“No.” He glanced over at Genevieve, who had gone very pale. “You said he could change his mind?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Would he come down here?” Leon asked.
“I don’t think so,” Genevieve said.
Leon heard the uncertainty in her voice. “Can you get together some supplies for me?”
She nodded and slipped quietly out.
He’d been barely aware of his surroundings, but now he glanced around the great kitchen of the Bastion, with its rafters high above and a row of ovens near the open fireplace. A bowl of brown eggs was in a familiar place on the counter, and he remembered a blue ceramic teapot on a shelf by the window. How long it had been since he used to sneak down as a kid to visit the cook he couldn’t recall, but little of it had changed. Though most of the cooking equipment was tidily put away, four pie dishes on the counter were filled with unbaked crusts that draped gracefully over the edges, and he could see a big bowl of apples had been sliced and sprinkled with cinnamon. In fact, now that he looked more closely, he saw traces of flour across the top of the wooden table, and Leon guessed that Mabrother Cho had hastily moved things out of the way to clear room for his unexpected guest.
“Pies?”
“Put the bowl there, and stay out of my way,” Myrna said, directing Mabrother Cho. “You, too, Masister. No hovering.”
Leon was slouched forward, elbows on the table, and when Myrna immersed his hand in the bowl, blood immediately began to seep into the warm water, turning it red.
“You’re reported to have a great bedside matter, Masister,” Leon said. “Where’s that tonight?”
“That’s only for patients I don’t care about,” Myrna said.
Yet when she began cleaning the wound, her touch was gentle and sure. He winced when she snipped away a dangling bit of torn skin, and blotted at the blood with a cloth. Then she hitched the lamp nearer. “It’s a clean amputation at least,” she said.
“Glad you think so,” Leon said. He refused to turn his mind back to how it had happened.
Myrna peered at it closely again, tilting her face as she inspected it from every angle, and then she folded Leon’s undamaged fingers down into a fist, keeping his wounded one extended over a clean towel.
“Mabrother Cho,” Myrna said. “I need you to hold his arm. Here.”
Startled, Leon tensed as the chef pinned his forearm securely against the table.
“You don’t want to watch this,” Myrna said, tightening her grip around his finger.
Before Leon could argue, she took her hot scalpel from over the flame and pressed the flat side of it firmly against his raw fingertip, cauterizing the flesh with a sharp sizzling noise. The sensation knocked Leon backward and he would have fallen except that Mabrother Cho kept his arm pinned to the table. A pungent, burning scent soured the air.
“Thank you,” Myrna said curtly to Mabrother Cho. “You can let him go.”
She set her scalpel aside.
“Are you done?” Leon asked, breathless with pain.
The doctor was frowning in concentration, examining his finger again. “Yes,” she said. “With this at least. Let’s see your back.”
She released his hand. He curled his fingers slowly toward himself, scrutinizing the seared end of his finger. The burned tissue was damaged in a controlled, scarlet burn, the bleeding had stopped, and the skin at the edges had singed to a tender brown. His pulse was still hammering in his veins but the pain, oddly, was deadening a little, as if the nerves to his fingertip, which before had been ragged and shrill, now were short-circuited. The significance struck him for the first time: his wedding ring finger had been deliberately stunted, as if he’d never make a fit husband.
“Ouch,” he said softly.
“Change your mind yet about the morphine?” Myrna asked. “I could put you out for a couple hours.” She put a light dressing on his finger to keep it clean.
“No.” He glanced over at Genevieve, who had gone very pale. “You said he could change his mind?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Would he come down here?” Leon asked.
“I don’t think so,” Genevieve said.
Leon heard the uncertainty in her voice. “Can you get together some supplies for me?”
She nodded and slipped quietly out.
He’d been barely aware of his surroundings, but now he glanced around the great kitchen of the Bastion, with its rafters high above and a row of ovens near the open fireplace. A bowl of brown eggs was in a familiar place on the counter, and he remembered a blue ceramic teapot on a shelf by the window. How long it had been since he used to sneak down as a kid to visit the cook he couldn’t recall, but little of it had changed. Though most of the cooking equipment was tidily put away, four pie dishes on the counter were filled with unbaked crusts that draped gracefully over the edges, and he could see a big bowl of apples had been sliced and sprinkled with cinnamon. In fact, now that he looked more closely, he saw traces of flour across the top of the wooden table, and Leon guessed that Mabrother Cho had hastily moved things out of the way to clear room for his unexpected guest.
“Pies?”
Similar Books
