The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

Sleep was the only thing on Wynn’s mind as he made out the last of the Blighty tickets. Slips worth more than gold to send the wounded home to England for recovery or for good. He printed Harkin’s name on the last ticket, which boldly stated “rest and release from formal duties.” Harkin had done his bit. He was free at last. Wynn signed the bottom and added the document to the stack to be given to the patients in the morning. This time next week those lucky devils would be crossing the Channel, leaving the stench of war far behind. If only all his patients were so lucky.

Stretching out of the stiff chair, he left his office and made a final round of the post-op ward. Rumors abounded of faltering Austria-Hungary lines and Germany doubting continued victories on the battlefield. The words armistice and peace negotiations floated on prayers that were battered remnants of hope after four dragging years of war.

As Wynn made his way back downstairs and crossed the vestibule, the front doors banged open. An echo thudded down the length of his body, not from the disturbing sound but rather the sight.

Svetlana. Wide-eyed. Clothes haphazard and breathing hard.

And she was staring straight at him. “I need you.”

*  *  *

There is a sense of pride when a physician is able to diagnosis a patient correctly—not in a sense of gloating righteousness, but that his skills could be used for the betterment of his patient. Too often skills are not enough and must concede to bitter failure. It was with this knowledge Wynn grappled when Svetlana told him of Marina’s symptoms. He could be wrong, but he doubted it.

Ordering an ambulance to find them at the church, Wynn grabbed his medical bag and raced with Svetlana to Marina as dawn cracked the sky. Running was faster than waiting for the ambulance to twist through the narrow streets. Even so, by the time they arrived, blood had begun to trickle from the young girl’s nose. Wynn kept the diagnosis to himself as they loaded her into the ambulance and drove back to hospital with masks covering their noses and mouths. Once there, he had to block the entrance to the quarantine ward as Svetlana and her mother tried to push past him.

“This is a restricted area,” he said in his calmest doctor voice, bracing his arms across the door. “Medical staff only.”

“Restricted for what?” Ana shrieked, wringing her hands and fluttering about like a caged bird.

“Influenza.”

With a gasp, she wilted against the wall.

Svetlana didn’t flinch. “What will happen?”

It had been a long while since he’d seen her. She was thinner, with a weary countenance that had become more pronounced. Awkwardness from their ill-parting lingered in the tension between them.

“She’ll be kept as comfortable as possible in a temperature-even room with other afflicted patients. She’ll be sponged down and have her sheets changed as needed, and kept hydrated in hopes of staving off pneumonia. That’s all we can do.”

“What about medicine?”

He shook his head. “This strain is like nothing we’ve encountered. It defies every preconceived notion we have of the virus. There’s nothing we can do but wait it out.” To see if they live or die. It was the worst, most powerless situation.

“Then I will wait with my sister.” Ducking, Svetlana slipped under his arm.

He caught her elbow and pulled her away as her fingers brushed the door. At times of family consultations when he had to give heartbreaking news, he relied on a reserve of professional calm and detachment. Many outside the medical field called it coldly impersonal, but it was necessary lest emotion destroy the order he was trying to keep.

All detached order shattered the moment he touched her. It was as if a live wire had been routed under his skin to his heart, jolting it alive. He’d tried to put her out of his mind and thought he was having a rather decent go at it, but that involuntary reaction told him he’d failed miserably.

“Your desire to help is admirable, but I’m short staffed and there aren’t enough nurses as it is. The last thing I need is for you to come down sick, too, adding to our increasing list.”

She glanced down at his hand still holding her elbow but didn’t move to dislodge him. “With not enough nurses to see to proper care, you have no argument to be selective. I will nurse my sister.”

He did have an argument, a very good one, but her twist of semantics wasn’t the most important one at the moment. “You don’t have proper training.”

“Then I will learn. Quickly.”

Nestor would gleefully have Wynn’s head on a platter if he discovered this break in protocol, but if the Duchess of Westminster could tend the wounded in a casino turned hospital, why not a Russian princess?

Reluctantly, Wynn released her arm as nurses bustled by, their head coverings flapping behind them. This could be the best decision he ever made or the worst. Odd, how those two were often separated by a precariously thin line.

“You must do precisely as the nurses instruct without question. No privileges will be given. At the first whimper of insubordination, you’re gone. Do you understand?”

She nodded, loose hair slipping from her plait. “Yes.”

“You’ll need a sterilized uniform before you can enter the ward. One of the VADs should do, and your regular clothing will need to be boiled and scrubbed with lye.”

Ana roused herself from where she still leaned against the wall. Her face had paled by two shades. “I’m going too. My daughter needs me.”

The last thing her daughter needed was a nervous mother hovering about and causing more harm than good. She’d only serve to cause upset. To everyone.

Wynn shook his head. “Your maternal feelings are commendable but will be put to greater use from a distance. You must remain strong to care for her once she is released. In the meantime, boil all of your clothing and bed materials in the hottest water you can manage. We need to stop the sickness from spreading to the other émigrés.”

“You are right, of course, Doctor, but I’m not sure . . . I can’t think properly.” Ana clutched the golden cross necklace around her throat. “What’s going to happen to my little girl? She’s so young.”

Svetlana slipped an arm around her mother’s shoulders. “Mama, I believe Dr. MacCallan is correct. Marina will rest much easier knowing you’re far from here and praying for her. Come, I’ll take you back to the church.” She eased the woman toward the stairs before looking back to Wynn. “I’ll return shortly.”

As promised, Svetlana returned an hour later sans hysterical mother. She’d changed from her rumpled clothing into a plain but clean VAD uniform—a blue dress and crisp white apron with a white handkerchief tied around her head—that Wynn had taken from the nurses’ supply closet. He wasted no time in placing her under the watchful eye of Sister Elton, a no-nonsense matron of the first and second Boer War and survivor of the disastrous Gallipoli Campaign. Ironside, the younger nurses called her for her unbending tenacity.

Sister Elton didn’t blink as she stared down at Svetlana from her imposing height. “I don’t care if you’re a princess or a chauffer’s daughter. This is my ward. My rules are to be obeyed at all times.”

To her credit, Svetlana met her stare boldly. “Of course.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Yes, Sister,” Svetlana respectfully repeated. Shoulders pulled back and chin tilted just so, one might never suspect she was not accustomed to acting the subordinate.

“We’re breaking every hospital rule I know, and I know them all, having written several of them myself over the years, but I can’t deny an extra pair of hands.” In addition to her tenacity, Sister Elton was known for her rationality. She swept a critical eye over Svetlana. “You’ll do well enough. Come.” She opened the infectious ward door and motioned Svetlana in.

A look of uncertainty passed over Svetlana’s ashen face. She glanced back at Wynn. “Aren’t you coming?”

Her expectant reliance on him sent a thrill through his bones, instantly followed by shame that it came at the expense of her sister’s illness. As much as he wanted to devote his time to them, more urgent patients required his care. “I’m needed in surgery. I’ll be up to check on Marina as soon as I can.” His words did little to relieve the anxiety in her eyes. “She will receive the best possible care in this ward. I promise.”

It was the only thing he could promise. The outcome of that care was completely and hopelessly out of his hands.