Page 76 of The General's Gift
Celeste frowned. Bleeding. Well, obviously. A cut here, a scrape there.
Then came a pair of angry-looking tweezers, gleaming dully under the oil lamps. Frowning, Celeste turned them over in her fingers.
“Metal forceps. Those are for pulling bullets out,” Rue said flatly.
Celeste’s hands froze around the cold steel. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.
The next item was a long, hooked needle and stiff thread.
“Sutures,” Rue murmured. “To stitch up wounds.”
Celeste inhaled sharply. She had stitched roses onto silk, traced delicate ivy tendrils in thread of gold. This was not so different, was it? Just another kind of needlework.
And yet—her hands trembled as she set it beside the forceps.
Then came a small glass jar, dark liquid swirling inside. Celeste uncorked it, bringing it hesitantly to her nose. A sharp, acrid scent burned the back of her throat.
“Carbolic acid,” Rue supplied. “For disinfecting wounds. Keeps the rot from setting in.”
Celeste set the jar down quickly, wiping her palms against her skirts as if the scent alone could sear them.
Then came a mean-looking saw. Her fingers curled around the rough wooden handle. Too large for anything delicate.
Rue wiped her hands on her apron. “For when the leg can’t be saved.”
Her stomach lurched. She tore her gaze from the blade, turned to Rue in quiet desperation. Surely—surely she was mistaken.
Not bruises. Not scrapes. Not even stitches. Limbs lost. The saw tumbled from her hands, clattering against the table. Her vision narrowed to the dark stains on the wooden handle. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. Her pulse pounded at her temples. Her stomach twisted, nausea creeping up her throat.
The tent was too hot. Too small. Suffocating.
So this was war. Not honorable cavalry charges, banners waving, handsome soldiers returning home with shining medals pinned to their chests. But men strapped to tables, mutilated.
A voice cut through the haze.
“You are not going to faint, are you, girl?”
Celeste’s head snapped up, her gaze locking onto the grizzled surgeon. His expression was neither cruel nor kind, simply pragmatic, as if she were another green recruit about to learn the hard way.
Her lips parted, but no words came.
Because the answer was yes.
It would be easy to faint and wake up in her bedchamber, believing this a bad dream. Yet the strongest part of her held fast, the survivor of the Revolution, the girl who clawed from nothing, who danced until her feet bled and defied Hawk himself.
And who could have foretold such a plot twist? Celeste, sturdy as any fortress stone. The thought almost made her laugh, or cry. Perhaps both.
So she lifted her chin and looked the surgeon in the eye. “No, sir. I will finish the task.”
Hawk hunched over the desk, sleeves rolled past his forearms. Letter after letter, he pressed his signet into molten wax. Beside him, the army chest stood open—its iron mouth gaping, velvet pouches of coin nestled between folded maps.
He was sealing the lid when Othello bounded inside the study as if he had Murat’s cavalry on his heels. The poodle hurled himself in frantic circles, trying to dislodge some sort of garment. The hem flopped over his paws, and bits of decorative braid bounced with every flailing leap.
Hawk bent down, reaching for the struggling beast. “Hold still, soldier.”
Othello rolled onto his back in surrender. If only its mistress were as easy to manage. With a sharp tug, Hawk peeled the garment off.
The dog licked his hand, tail waving.
