The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

Rain slashed down the windows of the Royal Medical Academy in east London. It turned the mounds of snow into gray slush that clogged the footpaths and splattered the buildings with icy sludge from each passing motor car. Situated on the corner of some highbrow street crossed with a priggish lane, the RMA had towered as a goliath in all its white limestone and colonnade glory since 1684, presiding over the health and advancement of medicine for mankind. More correctly, advancing the field when the governing old whitebeards deemed such advancements worthy of the cut. Everything not worthy was immediately thrown out like yesterday’s chips or newspaper.

Which was precisely how Wynn found himself sitting on a bench outside the delegation hall staring at his bullet-punched kopek. For nearly five days he’d sat in that tomb of a chamber under the grilling eyes of the medical board directors and answered question after question about his education, training, experience during the war, political leanings, religious beliefs, readings, and everything else they could think of to suss out whether he was of sound mind to perform surgery.

The implication of such a finding should have been the single point to occupy his mind, but it wasn’t. His thoughts remained fixated on Thornhill, or rather within Thornhill. The instant that telegram arrived to summon him to London, he’d gone in search of Svetlana.

And found that weasel kneeling at her feet. The same weasel who had barged into their home, wrapped his arms around Wynn’s wife, and kissed her for all the county to witness. She’d said it meant nothing to her, but that didn’t stop Wynn from wanting to beat the miscreant black and blue.

Guilt hit Wynn hard and quick like a punch to the rectus abdominis. Was he wrong to have married her when she waited for Sergey? A man she’d known for years, another Russian? Wynn braced his arms on his knees and hung his head. If given the option, would she wish to free herself of the marital contract and leave with Sergey? She had grounds to obtain an annulment. Wynn squeezed his hands together as his fingertips turned cold. Could he let her go when she’d come to mean so much to him?

“Not going to be sick, are you?” Gerard. His old friend had finally returned from war-torn Paris only to find a summons waiting for him to give a report on one Dr. Edwynn MacCallan, with whom he assisted in surgery that fateful day last summer. After giving his testimony of the events, Gerard had sat in the upper galleys as Wynn’s moral support.

“No.”

“Thinking about what’s going on behind those doors?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look like you’ve diagnosed your dog with one week to live?”

Wynn heaved a sigh and pocketed the coin. “I’m in love with my wife.”

“Oh. Hard time that.”

Wynn lifted his head and stared at his friend. “How would you know?”

“I’ve got brothers, haven’t I? They’re always going on about the misery of the old ball and chain, then follow it up with adamant declarations of love. Which is then followed up with a pint.” Gerard plopped on the bench and scratched a freckled hand through his ginger thatch of hair. “Do you need a pint?”

“No.”

“You might after today.”

Wynn jerked upright, every nerve on edge. “Why? Have they said something?”

“No. At least not while I was in there. Bickering back and forth. It’s enough to make a man’s head explode.” Gerard’s thin shoulders sagged as he rolled his homburg hat between his hands. “The truth is, mate, they don’t know what to do with you. Half the room is for tossing you in the tower, and the other wants to reinstate you with a formal apology by saying death is a part of our practice and you’ve always been a man to uphold your oath to do no harm.”

“And if my arrogance overtook my oath on that operating table? Would Harkin be here with us? You always told me it would get me in trouble one day.”

“I also said you were bloody brilliant.”

Wynn snorted. “Aye, bloody brilliant at disgracing myself.”

“Aha! That right there is where a pint will help. After a few you won’t feel disgraced anymore. You won’t feel anything anymore.”

“I’m not a drinker. You know that.”

“And you know I am. Come on. You can keep me from falling off my barstool while telling me all about your blue devils. As a physician I’m obligated to keep confidential whatever a patient tells me.”

Gerard stood and slipped on his overcoat, then donned a hat that slid down over his ears. He never could find a fit to complement his scrawniness. “Come on, Your Grace. Those old toads dismissed you for the day. Sitting out here punishing yourself won’t do a bit of good.”

Did he truly want the best for his patients, or was he in it for the glory? The question burned on Wynn’s tongue. He’d been too afraid to ask it, but his pride was trampled by the misery of needing to know. The walls of the ivory tower he had built of his medical achievements began to quake. “Do you think I caused Harkin’s death?”

“I think we do the best we can as physicians. The rest is in the Almighty’s hands. And Him you are not.”

“They’ve taken everything from me. If I can’t be a surgeon, what am I?” How pathetic he sounded. A more degrading state than having his license revoked, and one he’d never suffered before. It left him disoriented like a body of tissues and organs with no bone structure to keep him upright.

Gerard set his hand on Wynn’s shoulder, drawing Wynn’s gaze up. There was no derision in his friend’s face, but empathy as only another physician could understand.

“You’ll be my good friend Wynn MacCallan, duke of the northern Pict lands, champion of the weak, and fighter for extraordinary causes. Fighters don’t sit around feeling sorry for themselves. So get up and squire me to the pub.”

The rain had turned to a more Londonesque drizzle by the time they traversed the hall of mazes in the RMA and stepped out onto the street. A few brave souls hurried by, tucked under the safety of their brollies, while black taxis idled on the street corner in hopes of a fare.

Gerard started toward one of the taxis. “I know a good place in Mayfair—”

“Somewhere closer.” Wynn flipped up the collar of his coat. “I need to walk.”

“In that case, the Unholy Friar’s it is.” Gerard waved off the eager driver who scowled at Wynn. Whipping out a black brollie, Gerard plunked it over his head and followed Wynn. “Why must you Scots always insist on walking in the rain?”

“Clears the mind.”

“Brings about sinus pressure and soggy shoes, is more like it.”

Wynn dodged a slushy pothole. “Shall I carry you, ye wee softie Englishman?”

“I hope you’re not as insulting to that lovely wife of yours.”

The thought of Svetlana’s soft arms wrapped around his neck and her sweet breath near his ear sent Wynn’s heart thrumming. “She’d be more fun to carry, that’s for sure.”

“Why is she not here to curb your acerbic mood? I could certainly use the reprieve.”

And just like that all thrumming stuttered to a halt. He’d wanted her to come, had nearly said yes when she asked. The black velvet of her mourning gown washed out her face and dulled the purple beneath her eyes, but her wraps of sorrow did nothing to diminish the strength that had drawn him from the beginning. He should have taken her in his arms and kissed her senseless until there was no doubt how much he wanted her near him.

Then he’d seen Sergey hovering behind her with his declaration still ringing in Wynn’s ears. “We’re destined to be together.” How could Wynn take her to London as half a man? That was how he truly felt of late if he were being honest. He wanted to return to her and lay his reinstated license at her feet, clearing all dishonor from the name he had given her on their wedding day. All while begging an apology. If his time in London proved a failure, he would still tell her. Either way, she deserved the truth. Their marriage deserved the truth because real marriages were built on trust, and more than anything he wanted a real marriage with Svetlana.

“She remains at Thornhill,” Wynn said at last.

“Oh, that’s a pity. I should like to have seen her, then again, I know sitting through that interrogation day after day would have been rather distressing to someone of her regalness.”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know what?” Gerard tilted his brollie in defense against a spitting gutter over a bookshop. In an instant he whipped around, knocking Wynn’s hat askew with the tip of his umbrella. “You haven’t told her, man?”

“Let’s cut down the explanation and blame it on pride.” Wynn jammed his hat farther down on his head and hurried on.

Gerard dashed to keep up, splashing water on the back of Wynn’s legs. “Pride or not, you must tell her.”

The rainwater from Gerard’s splashing soaked through the back of Wynn’s trousers, clinging the material to his calves. He’d look no better than a drowned fish by the end of the day if this kept up. Par for the course. He felt about as low as one.

“I will. I wanted to before I left, but then . . . I’m telling her everything as soon as I return.” He needed to start practicing knee exercises. Groveling wasn’t a position he was accustomed to being in.

“You better. Woe to you if she finds out from someone else first.”

“For a man who hasn’t had much experience with women, you seem to know a lot about them.”

“Those novels I read happen to be very informative on the subject and anything they leave out my married brothers are quick to fill in. More than once they’ve found themselves sleeping on my sofa after a row with the wife. I’ve heard it all, and as an outside party can dispense advice without prejudice. My advice for you is this: talk to her before things get worse. Miscommunication laced with ego is the major downfall of most marriages.”

“Have you been reading those Freud theories again?”

“Jung actually, and psychoanalysis is not something we should ignore simply because it’s untested, much like your cardiology.”

Wetness slithered down the back of Wynn’s neck, dampening his collar. No matter how he tried to cover himself against the elements, they managed to find a crack.

“I only wanted to protect her.”

“I know you did, Wynn. That’s who you are.”

Rain slipped down the shop windows, coating them in a fine layer of gray mist. A white light twinkled through the gloom. Wynn moved to the storefront and stared at the beckoning display. His breath fogged the glass, but it didn’t dim the finely cut rocks’ glow with sparks of rainbow shooting through the centers. If ever Svetlana’s essence was embodied in an object, it was within these gems.

If she opted for an annulment, it would break his heart to watch her leave, but he wasn’t giving up without a fight.

“Go on to the pub, I’ll meet you there,” he said to Gerard as he opened the door to the shop. “I need to do something first.”