Chapter Text
Mr. Miller looked substantially better.
Just looking there was color in the face again, even breathing, alertness. The recovery could not have gone smoother.
All thanks to Dr. Reid’s blood transfusion technique.
Thoreau snuck a glance at Dr. Ackroyd, who was stone faced as he wrote on Mr. Miller’s chart. Of course, he’d never say anything about how crucial the blood transfusion—which Thoreau knew that Nurse Brannagan had begun without him since time was scant, another reason the man was so ill-tempered at the moment—had been.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Miller?” Thoreau asked him brightly.
Dr. Ackroyd snuck a glance at him. Of course, he’d accuse him of trying to treat his patient for him. But he could hardly say anything for exchanging pleasantries. If it upset him so much, he ought to converse with his own patients for once.
“Fairly well, sir. It’s just…well, I’m tired. A bit thirsty.” the man said gruffly.
“Only natural, sir. It will pass as you recover. Make sure to get plenty of sleep and drink enough water,” Ackroyd said, hanging up the chart.
Mr. Miller thanked them, and they went on their way. Thoreau could appreciate the silence. Nearly everyone was asleep; no patients were in critical condition. He was grateful every day since the epidemic.
It was disquieting how the epidemic had ended—fading out slowly over the course of two years like fog clearing as day broke. And now the hospital filled at normal capacity—for the Pembroke—with hardly a case of the Spanish Flu. There was no vaccine, no cure, no moment of triumph or defeat. It was like if a vicious beast that had ambushed a group of travelers on the road, killing several—and then slipping away, melting into the shadows.
Just as he was considering voicing the thought, even to Ackroyd, they turned the corner and ran into Dr. Swansea.
“Ah! Good to see you both!” Dr. Swansea said with his usual brightness. “How is Mr. Miller?”
“Very well, sir!” Thoreau replied.
“Yes, he’s recovering well,” Ackroyd said in his grumbling way.
“Very good! I’ll be seeing you both later at the meeting. We’ll be sure to let the others know!” and on he swept by, cheerful and full of energy. Thoreau always felt buoyed after talking to the hospital administrator.
Ackroyd and he went their separate ways, the tension between them dissolving with distance. He went to check on their long-term residents.
Ah, there was Dr. Reid.
“Ms. Howcroft, I must insist you eat breakfast regularly. Nurse Hawkins tells me you’ve been skipping meals again.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” Ms. Howcroft’s voice was proud and magnified off the pale walls, and she stood in her hospital gown like a duchess expecting to be heard and obeyed, “Powdered eggs and bread cannot sustain me doctor! I tell you, what I require is blood!”
“Ms. Howcroft,” Dr. Reid’s voice stayed reasonable and even, as though they were debating something perfectly rational, “you see what a dreadful habit that would be to get into while you’re here. Your…thirst might begin to overwhelm you if you overindulge. And it may attract the attentions of the hunters again.”
Ms. Howcroft seemed to consider for a moment. Then she raised her head with queenly bearing. “Very well, doctor. Your counsel is wise, though you know little of my strange being.”
“Glad to hear it, Ms. Howcroft,” Dr Reid smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
Dr. Reid turned, seeming unsurprised to see Thoreau there. “Good evening, Dr. Strickland.”
“And good evening to you, Dr. Reid. Have you got all our patients settled?”
“They seem to be well for the night. How is Mr. Miller?”
“Recovering quite nicely! Couldn’t have gone better, I think.”
Dr. Reid smiled. “That’s good to hear. Will I see you at the meeting later tonight?”
“Of course, Dr. Reid.”
“Will you be bringing journals in?”
“Indeed! This volume of the Lancet should’ve arrived in my mailbox today. I’ll go over a few articles and discuss them at the meeting.”
Dr. Reid’s face brightened. For their disagreements on experimentation—and Thoreau had to admit that the older doctor likely had a point with some of them—they shared a love for discovery and a hunger for new information. It was always a delight discussing the articles in medical journals with Dr. Reid, whose enthusiasm was matched by a keen eye for error in method and a mind that turned each article over with meticulous care, always finding something informative in the findings, the methodology, even the concepts grounding the article itself.
He went to their mailroom of sorts—like every other room in the hospital, it pulled triple or quadruple duty for other tasks—quickly, knowing that he’d need time to even begin to get the main ideas of an article and think up some points for discussion.
Carefully, Thoreau sidestepped boxes of supplies, until he’d gotten to the mailboxes.
As he lifted his hand, the wind of the movement sent something fluttering to the floor. It was a little folded bit of paper that had not been tucked completely under the door to Dr. Reid’s mailbox.
Thoreau did not intend to read it. He truly didn’t. But the note fell partly open in its journey to the floor, and he could not help but see the words on it as he picked it up.
I saw him the other night
Smiling through the dark
The moon donned her cloudy veil to see,
his eyes, pale bright as stars.
My love has an aquiline face
And is charming as a wren
But his crown and glory is his deep heart,
And all the dark gives way for him
Thoreau hastily shoved the short, amateur poem under the door to Dr. Reid’s mailbox. His face was hot with embarrassment and more than a bit of shame. It wasn’t his business to go looking into his colleagues’ love lives.
He had to admit curiosity though, for the lady who left poems detailing her love to Dr. Reid. The man was such a mystery, even after knowing him for a year. Despite sleeping in his office every other night and revealing that he had been tending to those unable to reach the Pembroke all those absences, or maybe because of that, the man seemed sometimes like a benevolent spirit that passed through the Pembroke; there to help, then gone, then reappearing silently.
Don’t ask, he thought to himself, careful not to knock the poem to the floor again as he grabbed his articles.
On the stairs as he made his way to the office, he saw movement at the edge of the paper, the click of good shoes on the worn floors.
He turned his head, saw Reid pluck the little paper from his mailbox. Thoreau thought he saw him smile.
Don’t ask, don’t ask, it’s not your business, he told himself. He swallowed his questions and hastily made his way up the stairs.