The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

Glasgow teemed with life and new purpose as the city unrolled itself from the fog of war. Battle scars remained in the wearied faces of its townsfolk, but businesses and shops were beginning to reopen as life resumed, though at an altered pace.

“Any more shops you wish to look in?” Tucking a newly purchased maidenhair fern against his chest, Wynn held tight to Svetlana’s arm as they crossed George Square in the biting January air.

Like the other bit of Scotland she’d witnessed, a wet cold clung to the air as mist rose from the nearby River Clyde and reminded her of Petrograd winters. People bundled into their coats as they scurried under the midmorning shadow of the towering Scott monument while Svetlana lifted her face to inhale the icy air. Winter had always dressed Petrograd in frosted finery, and she, like a true daughter of Russia, reveled in the snow crystals of brilliance.

She shook her head, careful not to unpin the new felt and quail feather hat Wynn had insisted on buying her yesterday, their first day in the city. She’d been looking for a traditional fur shapka.

“You’ve bought out most of them already.”

“My beautiful wife deserves to be spoiled. No more rags or ill-fitting castoffs for you.”

Ignoring the temptation to run a gloved hand over her fine wool skirt, Svetlana squeezed his arm instead. Buttery soft kid gloves, warm woven wool, delicate lace at her throat, and real silk undergarments. It was like returning to a long-lost fairy tale after living in a nightmare for so long. Yet while she had been restored to a castle, many still found themselves in the trenches. Or in an overcrowded, infested basement lost in Paris. In this new chapter of tales, she would not forget what it was like to go without.

Wynn hefted the young fern, its delicate stalk wrapped in protective burlap. “Should we find another florist and see what they have in the way of trees? Or those decorative herbal plants you were telling me about?”

“No, I think this addition will be perfect for now. It’s the wrong time of year to plant them, but I think he’ll grow nicely in the solarium where I can control the temperature better.” She touched one of the small green leaves sprouting from one of the dozen stems as the faint scent of dirt wafted under her nose. Spotting it in the florist’s shop window a block over, she knew the plant begged to be taken home to Thornhill. A beautiful life to grow and care for all her own in any kind of vase she chose. No finely cut empress’s vase required for this little one.

Running feet pounded on the pavement behind them. Shouting filled the air. Fear froze Svetlana to the spot. Bolsheviks.

Three boys chasing a ball streaked by.

Wynn’s worried face hovered in front of her. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought . . .” She pressed a shaking hand to her chest. Her heart thundered for release beneath her restrictive corset. “Sheremetev.”

“You don’t ever have to worry about him again.” Wynn grasped her arm and gently squeezed. “You’re safe now. No one has followed us here.”

Safe. He kept saying it, yet the first time she returned to a city the memories of burning Petrograd and hunted Paris rose from the ashes where she’d thought them buried and dead.

“I’ll take you back to the hotel,” he said.

“No. If I run at every scare, I’ll never stop.” She took a deep breath and forced herself to look around boldly to scare back the shadows threatening to creep around her. “I’m tired of running.”

Crossing the square, they turned down Hanover Street. The smell of coffee and bread lingered among the eateries as the last of the breakfast dishes were cleared away in time for lunch. A woman in a shawl with threads unraveling at the ends stepped out of a café and wiped off the tables. Her eyes widened at Svetlana as she passed before quickly dipping her head. Svetlana tried to acknowledge the curtsy, but the woman wouldn’t meet her eye. No doubt she was freezing in that threadbare wrap.

“Before we leave, I would like to find Mrs. Varjensky a new shawl,” Svetlana said. “She’s very fond of the peasant ones they wear back in the villages, but hers is tattered. Perhaps I’ll get her two. A sturdy wool for every day and a more delicate one for special occasions.”

“I’ll get her a brooch to match. It’s time she used something better than a safety pin for decoration.”

“She’s not the extravagant kind.”

“You told me all women appreciate jewelry.”

“Yes, that’s true, but nothing too grand. She would never wear it.”

“What if I have one made into the image of that doll you told me about? The kind her husband used to carve as a toymaker.”

“Matryoshki dolls. Yes, I think she would like that.” As a child, Svetlana had several of the nesting dolls that decreased in size. She would spend hours placing them one inside another until only the largest one remained. Hers had all been painted as Russian tsarinas, but Mrs. Varjensky said her husband carved his as animals, flowers, soldiers, and fairies. How she would have loved to see such whimsy.

“Good. Tomorrow morning I’ll find a jeweler to have one commissioned.” Wynn frowned. “There’s one problem. I don’t know what they look like.”

“I’ll make you a sketch.”

His eyebrows rose, inching his gray fedora up his forehead. It shaded his eyes to a soft brown. “I didn’t realize you drew.”

“All accomplished young ladies do. One of the few acceptable parlor pastimes, but I’m not very good at noses so don’t laugh when you see my attempt.”

“I promise not to. Too much.” Promise or not, the edge of his lip curled up. It only added to his rakish charm. Yes, she thought her husband charming. The fashionably cut coat and knotted tie did little to restrain the vitality exuding from him, as if life’s problems met their end in his presence.

Many of hers certainly had.

Yet he was not immune to troubles. They sought him by way of sickness, Russian crime lords, runaway princesses, wounded patients, and the death of a brother, but through it all he remained grounded. Never allowing the circumstances to overwhelm him, instead, meeting them as new challenges. It was a trait she was starting to find irritatingly irresistible.

“There must be something you’re not perfect at,” she said.

He jerked to a halt. “Who told?”

“A wild guess.”

“My handwriting is atrocious. They test you in medical school. If it’s legible, you fail.”

Svetlana laughed and tugged him into walking again. “I already knew that from your letters. Try again.”

“I can’t boil an egg.”

“Neither can I.”

“I think you just want to see how many things I can come up with. Let’s see.” His gloved fingers tapped an off-cadence beat on her hand that was tucked in his elbow. “I can’t sing. Dogs howl when I open my mouth.”

“I’m sure they do not.”

“Let’s find out.” He opened his mouth wide.

Svetlana clamped her hand over it as the first note gurgled out. “I believe you.” She giggled, actually giggled right there in broad daylight for all the public to witness. Who was this woman she was turning into, the one only Wynn seemed to bring out? The more time she spent with him, the more the layers of loneliness and self-protection seemed to melt away, releasing the coldness she once harbored.

His warm breath seeped through her glove, filling her palm. He gently took hold of her hand and pulled it away from his mouth but didn’t release it.

“I love hearing your laugh.”

There he went again. Effortless. Earnest. With a deep voice that wrapped around her like the White Nights of a northern summer. It caressed her senses, teasing her ears and tempting her heart.

“You are easily won over, sir, to find my crinkling nose an amusement. To laugh is considered undignified for a princess, but to have my nose scrunching at the same time is beyond humiliation.”

“Despite your best efforts to prove undignified, you are the singular most intriguing woman I’ve ever met. Princess crinkles and all.”

“If they weren’t the crinkles of a princess, what then?”

“You know I don’t care for titles. Titles muck things up from their true essence. That truth is the most fascinating. What I see is a radiant woman smiling at me. Nothing else matters.”

She’d known of his distaste for titles since first they met, but to hear him state it once more confirmed him as a man apart from all others. She didn’t have to be the perfect princess with him, nor bring him wealth or standing in the noble ranks as had been her expectations since birth. She could be Svetlana, who got lost in a pair of honest hazel eyes that saw deep inside her when no one else bothered looking.

Voices in that indecipherable Glaswegian accent vibrated in her ear.

“Standin’ there all day, are they?”

“Might be goin’ somewhere private, aye.”

“’Tis the middle of the day, for goodness’ sake.”

“’Tisn’t a proper distance they be keepin’.”

She and Wynn stood in the middle of the sidewalk. People swerved around them, twisting their heads back to gawk.

Svetlana tried to take a step back, but her hand remained captive in his. “Wynn, please. You’re embarrassing me.” Embarrassed. Warm all over and wishing there weren’t a hundred curious people milling around them like a circus spectacle when all she wanted was for him to lean forward and kiss her.

“I’m complimenting you. There’s a difference.” Offering no kiss, which was probably for the best as a priest had stepped outside of his church to squint at them through his spectacles, Wynn readjusted her hand in the crook of his arm and continued down the sidewalk, the fern swaying merrily in his other arm. “If I’d wanted to embarrass you, I’d keep singing.”

“Then I would be forced to leave you here like the pomeshanniy you are.”

“What does that mean?”

“Lunatic. Crackpot.”

“Sounds better in Russian, Lana.”

“What is this Lana?”

“My name for you.”

“My family and friends call me Svetka. Or Svetochka, Svetulya, Sveta. It’s common for Russians to have several diminutive versions of their names, but I’ve never heard Lana.”

“Good. I don’t want to sound like everyone else.”

“I don’t think you could even if you tried.” This outing was proving to be more daring than she first imagined. If she wasn’t careful, she’d let the magic of it sweep them into the middle of the street for a dance. Weren’t they supposed to be doing more serious things instead of giggling like children and almost kissing like lovers? The hospital! Yes, that was their purpose. “We should go or you’ll be late for your meeting at the hospital.”

He stepped toward the curb and lifted his arm to hail a passing motorized taxi. There were no horses left in the city after all of them had been sent to France for the cavalry. “I’ll have you taken to the Willow Tearooms. Mother is a friend of the owner, Miss Cranston, and says it’s the only acceptable place to have tea in Glasgow. Renowned artwork of some kind inside. I’ll meet you there after my meeting.”

A taxi swerved over and they climbed inside to the worn black leather seats. It was no warmer than the frigid January air outside.

Wynn shut the door and scooted close. “Willow Tearoom—”

“Glasgow Hospital,” Svetlana said, taking her fern from him and propping it on her knee where the bright green tips could trail down her skirt.

He looked at her with brow puckered. “You can’t come with me.”

“Whyever not? The decisions made at this meeting will affect both of us. I see no reason for me not to lend you my support on such a momentous occasion. Glasgow Hospital, please.”

The driver twisted his head to look at Wynn. “Off to where now, aye?”

Wynn settled back against the seat next to Svetlana, an amused smile twisting his lips. “You heard the lady. Glasgow Hospital.”

*  *  *

“We have ten surgeons on staff and four operating theaters. All are located on this floor for the best advantage of natural light coming through the windows.” Dr. Neil, chief of administration at Glasgow Hospital, led the small tour group delegated for Wynn’s visit down a wide corridor lined with symmetrical doors on either side. Iodoform and its disinfecting properties clung to the air in a familiarity to all hospitals. It smelled almost like a bouquet of flowers compared to the warfare casualties of blood, putrid human flesh, and filth-soaked uniforms that had choked the Parisian hospitals months before. They paused before the last door. “This is our largest operating theater.”

Opening the door, Dr. Neil gestured for Wynn to step inside first, followed by the trailing staff and doctors. Wynn could barely contain his surprise. This was no field tent caked with mud, nor a converted hotel dining room with glass chandeliers dripping with crystals. It was a large room specifically designed for the fixing of broken bodies. Light poured in from the wide windows and glistened off the sterile white tiled floors. Tiered seating took up an entire wall in the traditional fashion of allowing medical school students to observe the remarkable feats happening in the center of the room. Shiny instruments and equipment surrounded the operating table like servants before a throne, awaiting their glorious moment to serve.

Wynn ran his hand over the table, feeling the invisible current running through it, offering a chance to live for whoever laid upon its sacred surface. So, too, did the surgeon’s tools as they had been lined up perfectly as soldiers in their trays. Deadly looking with their hooks and blades, but nothing could be further from their true purpose.

“I see you’ve incorporated the vacuum-assisted closure.” Wynn pointed to the apparatus designed for continuous wound irrigation. The procedure hurt like the dickens, but it was an effective way to prevent infection from setting into open wounds.

One of the other physicians stepped forward. “We have, Your Grace.”

Wynn tried not to flinch at the imposter title aimed at him. The usage was meant with the best of intentions, but it didn’t belong to him. Not really.

“Dr. MacCallan, or Wynn, please.”

The man paled, which was impressive considering the already pasty pallor of most doctors. “Apologies, Dr. MacCallan. We pride ourselves on providing the newest technology and studies that may benefit our patients. The war cost us much, but advancements in lifesaving procedures have been made possible because of it.”

“Something we hope you can help us continue in the burgeoning field of cardiology,” Dr. Neil said. He enunciated each word with Oxford-based precision, as if to overcome his humble Dumfries origins. As if knowledge cared a sixpence about a person’s birthplace. “I’ve read over your transcript from the speech you gave to the medical board in Paris, along with Dr. Lehr’s notes on the matter. It’s a radical approach, but one we in this room are eager to deploy. Too many in our profession stick their heads in the sand or cry heresy when methods are challenged. We aren’t ostriches here at Glasgow Hospital.”

Wynn grinned. For all his nervousness about coming here, he’d never felt more at home. “You don’t know how relieved I am to hear that.”

“Well, gentlemen. I believe we are all in agreement.” Dr. Neil glanced around at the other men as they all nodded. “We would like to offer you a position here at Glasgow Hospital, Dr. MacCallan. You would be placed on a trial basis for six weeks as is standard, observing our techniques and assisting the other surgeons. At the end of your trial period, we will convene again to decide if you are to be offered a full-time position as head of the new study for cardiology. Do you find these terms acceptable?”

Stifling a loud whoop, Wynn gave a more professional nod. “Yes. Thank you for the opportunity. I only hope I can be an asset to the work ethic and studious minds you’ve cultivated here.”

“I believe there’s only one outstanding concern we have. How will your duties as duke affect your duties as physician? A surgeon cannot be allowed to leave during an operation if there’s a ribbon-cutting ceremony.”

The other men followed Dr. Neil in a hearty laugh, but Wynn’s came out dry and brittle. Must he always chose one over the other? Duke or doctor. Was he selfish to believe there truly was a choice anymore? Day after day his new mantle grew in weight, a weight that had been borne so well on Hugh’s capable shoulders. For Wynn it was a shroud burying him alive.

During the war he was perfectly in line with his calling. There was no time for lords and manors. All that mattered was the shattered soldier on the table in front of him. Wynn had never felt more alive, more purpose coursing through his being—a purpose he could use to alleviate pain and suffering. A duke’s days were spent crawling through piles of estate accounts, tenant rents, commissions for this, speeches for that. Father had the diplomacy for handling those responsibilities; doing so breathed life through his every fiber. He was born to the title. As had been Hugh. Now Wynn was expected to cast aside everything he’d built his life toward and fall into a role he was never equipped for.

His only solace was that times were changing. The war had forced it. Could he not look after Thornhill and its people while also serving his medical oath? Oversee the larger issues and plans while entrusting the day-to-day business to Mackie? Or Svetlana. His wife had grown up in a palace, and he had the fullest confidence in her abilities. Was it naïve to believe it could work? He wanted to believe. Only time would tell.

“I see no reason why one should interfere with the other,” Wynn said. “My priority is to those in need.”

Apparently it was the correct answer. Dr. Neil bobbed his head in approval. His entourage nodded along. “Delighted to hear you say that. Now, shall we return to my office? I’d like to speak with you more about this heart theory regarding electrophysiology.”

Leaving the theater, the other doctors allowed Wynn and Dr. Neil to carry on alone. The two retraced their steps back down the corridor as nurses in starched aprons bustled by. Wynn peered at the surgery schedule posted by the doors, eager to see his name on rotation.

“We have the ancient Chinese to thank for laying the foundation of arrhythmia theories,” Wynn said, “but only recently have machines been created to detect the electrical phenomena of the heart. Disorders can be identified—”

An orderly popped up in front of them like a jack-in-the-box. He held out an envelope. “Dr. Neil. A letter for you.”

Dr. Neil waved him off. “Put it on my desk. I’m in conference with Dr. MacCallan.”

The boy’s nervous gaze flickered. “I was told to hand it to you with urgency, sir.”

“Very well.” Dr. Neil snatched the envelope from him and tore it open. “Excuse me a moment, Dr. MacCallan.” Scanning the letter, his eyes widened until they looked ready to fall out of his head. He refolded the letter and tapped it against his palm for several seconds. Finally he cleared his throat and looked at Wynn, his face pinched with displeasure. “I do not know how to say this but right out. You are familiar with a Lieutenant Harkin?”

Uneasiness curled in Wynn’s belly. Why would he ask that? They’d been speaking of Harkin only an hour before. “My patient in Paris.”

“The one whose heart you rotated for object extraction. It seems he has died due to surgical complications.”

The unease balled into a fist of shock and socked Wynn square in the middle of his chest. Harkin. The scared soldier who was nothing more than a lad. Who had trusted Wynn to keep him safe. Dead. It was always a possibility. Anytime a person went under the knife was a gamble with death, but the rationale was lost in a flood of guilt. Each death left a jagged crack through his Hippocratic oath.

Wynn pushed a shaking hand through his hair. “I was going to visit him in London next month. He’d written to me a fortnight ago saying how well he was doing.” The shock of the news spread numbly through his veins until his mind could only focus on a single thought. “It’s more important than ever to advance the cause of cardiology so incidents like this can be avoided. If we have the tools in place, patients like Harkin—”

“Yes, something to consider in future. I’m afraid we must part ways here. We’ll be in touch should we decide to continue the prospect of you joining our hospital.”

“I don’t understand. Minutes ago you offered me a trial position.”

“Your Grace—”

“Dr. MacCallan.”

Dr. Neil sighed through his nose. A common physician’s reaction when a patient refused to comprehend the diagnosis. “In light of this unfortunate development, the hospital’s president feels it would not be in good taste or standing to hire a doctor with a besmirched reputation. We were quite willing to listen to your newfound theories, but seeing as they cannot be considered safe—”

“No surgery is safe.”

“Be that as it may, we have our patients to consider. No one will wish to be operated on by a physician who is already under the displeased eye of the medical profession at large.”

Heated anger avalanched through the numbness, scorching all ability for diplomacy. “A man has died. A man who entrusted himself into my care after being knocked down by a machine gun in service to his country, and all the president cares about is how it will make him look?”

“An investigation is being launched. The authorities will be in contact for your statement.” Dr. Neil placed a hand on Wynn’s shoulder. Another well-meaning physician’s gesture that did little to nothing. “I’m sorry.”

Wynn was left standing alone in the corridor. An hour before he’d been welcomed with enthusiasm as a golden boy, and now he’d been deserted like a pariah. The desertion he could deal with. Even the hot-cold treatment of so-called medical professionals he was accustomed to, but the death of a patient was something he would never shake off. A patient he had promised to do everything he could for. In trying to prove his own gut instinct of what was needed, had Wynn sentenced Harkin to death on that operating table? Had he stopped to consider all the possibilities before rotating that heart? If he’d not been so rash, would Harkin still be alive?

No. He’d done what he thought was right at the time. No surgeon had time to second-guess himself in the moment. Or was that his arrogance defending itself again?

Wynn tore down the stairs as the demons of doubt clawed at his heels. He needed to get out of there. He needed to retrace every step and action he’d taken that day when operating on Harkin. Had he done everything he could to prevent death?

He rounded the front reception desk. “Where is Her Grace?”

The nurse looked up from her files of paperwork. “I believe she was taking a tour of Wing A. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll have one of the junior nurses show you—”

“No need. I’ll find it.”

He’d been in enough hospitals to understand the general layout at a glance. It took him approximately ten seconds to locate Wing A, and fifty seconds with several wrong doors before he located his wife. She sat in a waiting room filled with families. Most noticeably the men were former soldiers, if their missing limbs and facial injuries were any indication.

Weaving his way to her side, Wynn gently grasped Svetlana’s elbow. “Apologies for interrupting, but we need to be on our way.”

Svetlana smiled up at him like the sun coming out of hiding, but he couldn’t feel the warmth due to the numbness lingering in his bones like an ill-fated chill waiting to freeze him out.

“Wynn, I’m so glad you’re here. This is Mrs. McDuff, her husband, Mr. McDuff, and their children. Mr. McDuff lost his leg in . . . Marne?”

Clenching his worn hat in his hand, Mr. McDuff pushed to his feet using a crutch for support. “Yes, ma’am. I mean, Duchess.”

“They have to travel over four hours every month to come here to the hospital only to sit for hours in the waiting room. Most of the other patients find themselves in similar distressing circumstances because adequate care isn’t available where they live in rural areas.”

Wynn tried to focus on what Svetlana was saying, but the words garbled together in his ears as it hit the thickening fog of numbness. She was looking at him. They all were. Waiting for him, the great surgeon, the lofty duke to say something. “It’s a problem everyone is facing. Hospitals and medical staff are doing what they can.”

Mr. McDuff bobbed his head while his wife dipped into a curtsy with tears in her eyes as if Wynn had spouted ecclesiastical revelations. It twisted the guilt of wretchedness like a knife. Svetlana thanked the couple for sharing their story with her and said goodbye to the others in the room. All Wynn could manage was a wooden nod.

Outside, Wynn hailed a taxi and they climbed inside. “Grand Central Hotel.”

Svetlana paused in untangling her fern fronds and frowned. “I thought we were having tea at the Willow.”

“No. We’re leaving for home.”

“Is everything all right?”

“A former patient of mine, a Lieutenant Harkin, died.”

“Oh, Wynn. I’m so sorry. How terrible for his family.” Her gloved hand rested lightly on his. Any other day he would have thrilled at her touch, but he felt nothing beyond the guilt. “I’m sure we can return another time for you to meet with the hospital board.”

The whole truth spilled to his mouth, but he clamped it behind his teeth. How could he tell her about the rejection? The one accomplishment he prided himself on had now been tarnished, and those esteemed opinions he sought to change for the betterment of patient treatment now turned against him. It was enough to cripple the pride of any man.

Besides, she’d witnessed enough suffering and disappointment; he didn’t want to add one more thing to burden her shoulders. Not after he’d vowed to defend her against further woes. He would take the troubles on himself if only to spare her. One day he would tell her, as he’d promised honesty on their wedding day, but not until the storm had passed.

He gently slipped his hand out from hers in a move made to look like he was adjusting his hat. Her hand was too trusting, and the weight of such responsibility was more than he could bear. Glasgow’s gray cityscape passed in a blur outside the taxi window, but he saw only his failure in the eyes of a dead man. “Another time. Perhaps.”