The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

An incision on the left side of the chest exposed the beating heart. Wynn angled his head to see where the slug had entered, but after a moment of gentle probing, the bullet refused to be located.

“Where’s it gone?” he muttered.

“Right ventricle or passed to the spine?” Gerard offered as he stood opposite the operating table.

Wynn shook his head. “Not possible with the trajectory of the entrance wound. Or based on the X-ray findings. Let me see that shot again.”

A nurse scrambled to put the X-ray on the light board. A fuzzy black image of bone, organs, and cavities flickered. Barely out of its infancy, this new technology in medical diagnosis was a miraculous gift to surgeons. Countless were the lives saved by its internal depictions, a view once reserved for the Creator alone.

Glancing from the X-ray to Harkin’s exposed heart, attempting to merge the two images together in his mind, Wynn’s frustration mounted. He worked his fingertips over the organ. Smooth muscle, bumpy interventricular artery and cardiac vein, and aortic arch. No bullet.

“It’s not here.”

“What do you mean? Of course it is. The X-ray shows it. Unless Harkin decided to perform his own surgery that we don’t know about since the images were taken.”

“It’s hiding.” Instinct nudged. Wynn rationalized the possibilities and outcomes, but intuition wouldn’t be denied. “Breathing status?”

The anesthesiologist checked the gas apparatus that kept the patient sedated before taking his pulse. “Steady, Doctor.”

“Stand by. I’m going to rotate the heart for a posterior examination.”

Gerard fumbled a pair of forceps. They bounced off the floor and skittered across the room. “You can’t do that! It’s impossible.”

“It’s the only recourse to finding the bullet.”

“Doctor MacCallan.” Gerard took a shaky breath and lowered his voice. “Wynn. You’ll kill him.”

He might, but he also might save his life. The risk was worth it. “Stand by for rotation.”

Clearing his mind of the assaulting doubt and apprehension, Wynn focused on the life-sustaining piece as it beat in time with the clock on the wall. His own heart calmed to follow the pace, its steady rhythm narrowing the room and all its distractions to a single moment captured in his hands. The familiar comfort of knowledge quietly settled within him. He knew what he was doing, and moreover, knew what needed to be done.

Turning Harkin’s heart in minuscule fractions, he slipped his fingers around to the posterior side and closed his eyes, blocking out visual distractions. The mind often worked best in darkness as it was forced to rely on truth and not vision’s desensitization. The inferior vena cava carrying deoxygenated blood from the lower half of the body into the right atrium. Pulmonary veins carrying oxygenated blood from the lungs. Right ventricle. Left ventricle. A bump.

Wynn’s eyes flew open. He ran his finger over it again.

A smooth cylinder. The bullet.

“It’s here. Lodged between the posterior left and right ventricle. Angle the lamp here. Doctor Byeford, take the forceps while I hold the heart steady.” A small gag brought Wynn’s head up to Gerard’s pale face. “If you’re going to be sick, there’s a bucket in the corner.”

“I’m a surgeon, not a green-nosed VAD. I’ll hold. You extract.”

Gripping the forceps, Wynn slowly withdrew the obstruction from its hiding place and held it up to the light.

“There you are, bonny beastie.” A slug from a German 8mm Mauser rifle. He’d pulled out thousands of them since the start of the war, yet it never failed to amaze him the amount of pain a single body could endure. Nor the amount of horror a human could inflict upon another. How senseless was war in its incessant drive to destruction. If the human race could see the wonders that composed their bodies, the intricacies of veins, the precise perfection of the humerus in its rotating cuff, or the delicacy of a heart pumping, they would not be so quick to sacrifice themselves at the altar of fevered battle. Sheer waste.

He dropped the bullet into a sterile dish the nurse held and then the forceps into another.

“Breathing dropping,” the anesthesiologist said.

Words no surgeon wanted to hear.

“Heart stopped.”

Even worse.

“Stand clear.” Wynn waved back the flap of nurses and positioned himself over the patient’s heart once more. Every fiber of his being tuned to the absent heartbeat.

“Begin manual resuscitation.” He gently massaged. One. Two. Three. Nothing. Again. One. Two. Three. Nothing. Wynn gritted his teeth, refusing the well of panic. He hadn’t given in to it before and he wouldn’t start now. One. Two. Three. “Come on, laddie. Don’t go out on me in front of the nurses. Bad cricket, that.”

Sweat puckered his brow. One. Two. Three. Not Harkin. Not after Wynn had given the man his solemn oath of care. It was a vow given on the rarest occasion as it benefited no one but a patient’s peace of mind and set the surgeon to a not-always-possible standard of achievement. A momentary lapse of weakness, or perhaps a sense of reassuring himself in the dangerous endeavor, and the vow hung suspended like a thread of hope between patient and surgeon, ready to be severed at the hand of Fate.

Fate would not sever them now.

Massage. One. Two. Three.

A pulse rippled through the heart. Another. Life thumped into a steady beat.

Wynn let out a shaky breath.

“Heart rate climbing. Breathing maintained. Closing into normal,” announced the anesthesiologist in a shaky tone of his own.

Wynn glanced across the table to where Gerard stood immobilized. “Ready for closure, Doctor?”

Gerard blinked several times at the pulsing heart within reach of his fingertips and finally lifted his gaze to Wynn as a nurse placed sterilized packing gauze in his hand.

“Ready on your count.”

An hour later Wynn sat on the back steps of the hospital, arms looped over his knees and head dragging down. Exhaustion wearied every bone of his body until the angles seemed to morph into one sagging mass. Yet the thrill of success could not escape him. It bounded from one fatigued muscle to the next, skipping over synapses like sparks of lightning that blazed through his nervous system with blinding excitement.

He’d done it. He’d kept his promise to Harkin.

The sheer magnitude of what had been accomplished in that operating theater deprived him of words. A rare occurrence indeed, but mere mortal words could not express the awed response demanded by this unprecedented surgery. The practice of medicine existed in closed, round rooms where the select privileged were admitted to trod. There to bloat themselves among the shelves of practices deemed favorable for centuries, hardly daring to open the door for new possibilities but for the fearless souls in search of better treatment. The doors to Wynn’s medical chamber had been flung wide open. What might exist beyond the walls?

The door banged open behind him. Gerard huffed down the steps. Orange hair blazing like a crinkled carrot, he furrowed his hands through it as he paced on the grass in front of Wynn. Back and forth he strode with a determination lacking conviction of direction.

Wynn sat quietly in the fading heat of day and waited for his friend to settle on the words tossing about in his mind. It wouldn’t be long. Gerard never could bottle his reactions for extended amounts of time.

Gerard stopped directly in front of him. “That was the most insane, terrifying, mad, not to mention off the chump stunt I have ever witnessed.”

Wynn dropped his head. “Anything else?”

“It was bloody brilliant. I’ve never seen anything like that.” Gerard bent over and grabbed his knees. “Don’t ever do it again. My heart can’t handle the theatrics.”

“You call saving a patient’s life theatrical?”

“The way you perform, yes. Always invoking the most drama into theater instead of sticking to the rules.”

Wynn’s head snapped up. “I hardly think Harkin would agree with sticking to the rules in there. He’d be shoving daisies on the table.”

“You were reckless. Sometimes I think you care more for the triumph in the challenge than the actual patient.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it? Then why are you always mucking about with things best left out of our grasp? Stop playing God and leave well enough alone because I won’t go down with your foolish need to prove yourself.” Gerard stormed back inside and slammed the door. A second later the door opened again and he huffed back out. “My apologies, chap. I should not have spoken in anger to you.”

Wynn’s defense deflated. As loathe as he was to hear it, his friend had a point. “Anger often reveals our truest meaning when it isn’t being hidden behind good manners.”

“True, but you do not deserve my censorship in so harsh a tone. Please do forgive me.”

Standing, Wynn clapped him on the shoulder. A comradery of candidness was not one he wished to forsake on the grounds of his pride. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“What happened in there?”

“The heart stopped. I restarted it.”

Gerard gave him a sharp look. “But how did you know?”

“I’ve been reading medical correspondence from the frontline. A similar operation took place at the Battle of Cambrai last year. The surgeons at the casualty clearing station wouldn’t touch the patient, said he was as good as dead. All heart cases are considered such, but the chief surgeon had read in a medical journal years before the war about the groundbreaking research and techniques the Germans were employed in.”

“The Germans and Austrians have always ingratiated themselves to the newest fangled treatment.” A hint of derision laced Gerard’s tone.

“With great success. Consider the sheer number of patients admitting themselves to their spas in the mountains to take the waters. The achievement of their results cannot be denied.”

“My mother goes there, or did, every June for her nerves. Personally, I think it’s to spend the month away from Father when his horse betting kicks into a frenzy.” Gerard grew quiet as two grizzled physicians walked by deep in conversation about a leg amputation. He lowered his voice. “I don’t believe we should be trusting the Jerries when it comes to treatment for our patients. It’s unpatriotic.”

Wynn harbored no such discrepancies as to who heard him. Would do them all some good to open their ears. They ridiculed him enough behind closed doors. Might as well bring it out into the open.

“Disease, sickness, and death have no such boundaries of partisanship. They’re indiscriminate to lines on a map. What that physician did in Cambrai was unprecedented. No one has dared to cut into the heart before to this extent. At least no British physician. Until now.”

“It’s dangerous. Not only for the patient but for you as well. What do you think the board will say when they find out? Or Nestor, for that matter. He’s a real tartar for rule following, and it’s his job as hospital director to ensure we do as well.”

“Nestor should’ve retired decades ago. If it were up to him, we’d still be using leeches and bloodletting. We owe it to our patients to implement the newest advancements, otherwise we are signing their death sentences by not trying.”

“The men in our profession do not often trust what is new. It isn’t safe. By continuing with these practices they will think you aren’t safe.”

“Nothing in our profession is safe. Men are being ripped apart in the trenches and sent to us in pieces. What about bullets, and cannons, and bayonets seem safe to you? As physicians we are charged with seeking the best treatment for those in our care, and if that means bucking against what stuffy old men clustered around their draconian traditions declare, then by God, that’s precisely what I’ll do. I have no use for the doctor whose beliefs are founded on medical authority alone.”

Gerard placed a steadying hand on Wynn’s shoulder. “Tread carefully, Wynn. Your brilliant defiance to toeing the line may be your undoing. How will you care for your patients then?”

“If I toe the line, they might all be dead.”

Dropping his hand to his pocket, a weary smile slid across Gerard’s face. “Do you always have to have the last word?”

Wynn couldn’t stop his own smile from creeping out. “Only if it’s the right one.”

“Speaking of which, how’s that lady of yours?”

Smile fading, Wynn toed a rock embedded in the dirt. “She’s not mine.”

“I thought you were courting her.”

“Courting would involve agreement from the lady. At the moment it’s a one-sided pursuit.”

“Then why persist?”

“Because I’d like it to become two-sided.”

Gerard sighed as if the entire situation weighed him down. Which wouldn’t take much in his case. The man was as lanky as a tattie bogle scaring off the crows.

“There are any number of women in this sweltering metropolis, or London or Edinburgh, for that matter, who would adore nothing more than to acquire the title Marchioness of Tarltan. Why must you chase after the one who doesn’t want you?”

“Precisely for that reason.”

“Because you’re a glutton for punishment? Because you have to do everything the hard way?”

How many times had Wynn asked himself that very question only to be stumped by the mystery? He couldn’t ignore the inexplicable draw he felt toward this woman. As if there were a piece of her calling to him, pleading for discovery. Any woman in her position would’ve given up long before now, but not her. There was a fierceness about her pride that refused to accept defeat. Nothing was more admirable.

Wynn kicked the rock across the grass patch. “Because she intrigues me and I need to find out why.”

“Like I said, reckless.” Gerard started for the door, his feet dragging on each step. Surgery was an exhausting business. “Up for a game later tonight? Your choice after you nodded off during chess last time.”

“Too much sitting for me, but we’ll need something to keep us awake while we adjust swinging onto the night shift.” Wynn checked his wristwatch, a gift from a colonel whose leg he’d saved from being amputated after the Somme. The handy timepieces were a brilliant advancement deployed by the men in the trenches to better synchronize tactics and were far more maneuverable than bulky pocket watches. Perhaps in time, their uses would prove a trend far from battle. “I need to check on Leonid Sheremetev first. His bandages are about ready to come off.”

“Odd company you keep. I realize the Russians are allies, or they were until the country turned on itself in civil war, but they’re not like us. A whole other culture. Bears, beets, and a sentimental longing for misery.”

“Don’t believe everything you read. Leonid Sheremetev has an unbeatable zest for life in his bones.” Despite his initial concerns—after all, upstanding citizens didn’t get into alleyway shootouts—Wynn had come to like his gregarious patient since meeting him nearly two weeks ago. He had heart.

Gerard snorted. “Alexander Pushkin is said to be the greatest Russian poet who ever lived. If he stakes a claim of his own country, then I am faultless to believe him.”

“As I am faultless if I fall asleep during your waxing of poetry. A fate I cannot succumb to for the sake of my patient who happens to serve delicious beets.”

It was nearing ten o’clock by the time Wynn left the hospital. He hurried down the street as the streetlamps flickered one by one to douse the City of Light in darkness. They, too, well-served as beacons for German zeppelins and their Fokkers mounted with deadly machine guns swooping in on nighttime raids. It was an eerie experience walking through the great city in absolute obscurity when it should be teeming with life. As if he were trespassing on her hesitant breath of survival.

Arriving at Leonid’s flat, Wynn reached for a note stuck between the door and the frame. He pulled the note out and scanned the uneven writing.

Mac,

White Bear. Come join.

L

The club was the last place he wanted to go, much less attend a patient, but said patient wasn’t making recovery easy. Two nights prior Leonid had engaged in a one-armed fist fight with a man who insulted the vodka being served by not taking a fourth glass. Why he’d taken three before deciding it was beneath his taste buds Wynn couldn’t puzzle out, but it had earned the man a bloody nose and Leonid bruised knuckles.

Wynn glanced at his wristwatch, calculating how long it would take him to rush home, change, and get to the club. Too much time. The stuff-shirted men and glittering ladies would have to find another direction in which to look if his working clothes offended them. Hopefully he’d managed to avoid any unseen blood splatters today.

The White Bear’s guard opened the door without a word, and once more Wynn found himself swept away to another world. One clogged with thick smoke, chilled bottles, glittering gold, and weeping music. A world desperately trying to spin itself into resurrection and teetering from its pinnacle like a top with a faulty axis. Truth be told, he felt a wee bit sad for them all swanning about as they once had in courts of royalty.

A woman with too much rouge painted on her cheeks and smelling heavily of violets draped herself across Wynn’s arm and whispered in his ear.

Wynn turned his nose from her sour breath. “Sorry. I don’t speak French.”

“Buy drink.” She jabbed a gloved finger into his chest, then into the creased flesh of her sagging bosom. “Thirsty, oui.”

“Nyet. Em, non.” Once more his mind had to rework itself in speaking French to a Russian.

“I countess. Command you.”

“Apologies, your ladyship, but I believe you’ve had enough to drink and I’m fresh out of vodka.”

“Never run dry in Russia. It flow like River Neva to Petersburg palaces. It still Petersburg. No call Petrograd. War never changed that. It no change me countess.” She poked herself again. “Countess Pletnyovna. You kiss.” She swung her hand up to Wynn’s face, smearing her fingers across his lips.

“A pleasure to meet you, Countess, but I have a rather important matter to attend to.”

“I many important matters in Russia. Balls, parties, operas. Here, nothing. Sit. Wait for home return. Live in palace with many jewels. All gone now.”

“My sympathies for your loss, Countess. Please, excuse me.” Wynn tore himself away as a far-off mist clouded her eyes. Whether from the drink or the memories of diamonds lost, he couldn’t decide. Most likely both if forced to give his professional diagnosis.

Wynn angled his way to the VIP table where Sheremetev was customarily found holding court. Dodging a harried waiter with a loaded tray, he sidestepped into a cluster of men smoking cigars. He could handle all manner of smells from gangrene, to putrid flesh, to chlorine gas bubbling first thing in the morning, but being able to endure cigar smoke was not one of his nasal-suffering attributes.

“Vrach.” One of the men’s arms landed across Wynn’s shoulders and tugged him close. Much too close as he felt perspiration seeping through the man’s dinner jacket. “You here, vrach.”

It hadn’t taken long for Wynn to decipher that Russian word and the universal response being announced as a physician achieved. An unequal mixture of awe and suspicion that undoubtedly led to—

“Vrach, here bump. You look.” Warning given, the man hiked up his shirt and pointed to a dysplastic nevus below his third rib. “It turn red.”

“It’s turning red because you’re touching it.”

“But it red.”

Not wanting to give a formal examination standing next to the dance floor, Wynn gave the spot a once-over to ensure the man wasn’t suffering a lethal mole, then gently tugged the shirt back down.

“I see no cause for concern. However, if you’re distressed about its appearance, you may come to Hôpital du Sacré-Coeur tomorrow. Give my name, Dr. MacCallan, and one of the physicians will attend you.”

Frowning dubiously at being put off, the man went back to poking his side with his cohorts as audience. Wynn moved quickly through the crowd before another potential patient required medical attention. It never failed. Attend a party and before long he ended up in a side room taking consultations without even a glass of punch to remind him why he’d come in the first place.

At last he arrived at the circle of sidearm-strapped men guarding Sheremetev’s private booth. “Evening, gents. I see you haven’t moved since last I saw you.” It wasn’t uncommon for a club, hotel, or fancy restaurant to have discreet crowd control should the need arise, but the stipulation was always discreet. These men made no bones about their inclusion and intent to the establishment. An unsettling insight into the owner himself.

One of the guards grunted and peeled back an inch of the velvet curtain that sectioned off the private table. A few words of Russian and the curtain pulled back as a man wearing a thick coat and a tall wool hat like many of the émigrés he’d seen in the Alexander church basement slid from the booth and slunk away. The guard grunted for Wynn to enter.

“Our own savior. Come in. Come.” Managing to surround himself with his own atmosphere, Sheremetev assembled himself in the center of the booth with his bulbous belly pushing against the table. He was dressed in immaculate evening clothes that were too fine for wartimes with the same double-headed eagle stickpin glistening from the folds of his white ascot. Like a drop of blood on snow. A ruby that size could feed the entire 8th Arrondissement for a month.

Wynn stepped into the cordoned-off space and remained standing. “Forgive the intrusion.”

“Never could you intrude. Our business at conclusion.” The folds around Sheremetev’s eyes twitched as they followed the man out of the club. “Heat addling him.”

“Perhaps he should have taken off his wool hat. It’s nearly thirty-three degrees Celsius outside.”

“Russians these days wear all worldly goods no matter temperature wherever go. One never know.”

The unspoken fear hung in the air, like a basin suspended on a thread. A word, a shift could tip it from the precarious balance to rain panic on their heads. Was this the anxiety Svetlana lived each day? Never knowing one hour to the next if she was in danger. Always one eye hunting ahead while the other searched behind for threat.

“But you’ve found safety in Paris. The troubles of your country can’t touch you here.” It was not with naivety Wynn made such a statement, rather one of earnest conviction. One he was fervent to see unbroken.

“You thinking no? It presumed surface of safety. One we vigilant protecting at all costs.” As with the precarious basin of fear, Sheremetev, too, held his own balancing act. A manner of ease and affability as a mask to the ring of steel within. A ring of steel that grasped tightly to the reins of control. Woe to the one standing in defiance of such a claim.

Danger lurked as Wynn’s constant companion in the operating theater, but it was a danger he understood, one he could defend against to the best of his learned knowledge. Sheremetev pulsed a peril of incurability. Like a heart beating at its own time, but a closer examination detected an erraticism of the rhythm from its fixed course.

Wynn shifted the medical bag in his hand, eager to conclude his own business and be on his way. “Is Leonid about? I found a note saying to meet him here for a short exam.”

Sheremetev snapped his pudgy fingers and one of the guards appeared, silent as an apparition. A quick command in Russian and the guard disappeared, presumably in search of the prodigal patient.

“Death of me that boy will be. Much play and work not enough. He on the mend, da?”

Wynn nodded, grateful he’d picked up the minimal Russian word for yes and even more grateful that his Russian hosts spoke enough English to communicate, otherwise there would be a lot more hand gestures. He was terrible at charades.

“I’m preparing to remove the bandages tonight. Fresh air does wonders for a wound after the initial phase of recovery has passed. Any chance of finding who did this to him?”

“I know already.”

“The authorities have apprehended them? That’s a relief. The people of Paris have enough to trouble themselves over without back-alley ruffians.”

“No need authorities. This Russian matter. Deal with as such.”

Chipped with ice and weighted with ominousness, the words sank deep into Wynn’s unsettlement. The plush booths, gold trim, bejeweled women, and titled lords were nothing more than an opulent smokescreen wafted over nefarious means. He could venture a good guess to those means exactly, but he’d rather not dwell on the implications. Best to treat his patient and move on before he became embroiled in this underworld of Russian dealings.

“Do you understand meaning, Dr. MacCallan?” Despite his eyes being hidden in rolls of fat, Sheremetev watched him closely.

“My understanding goes to my patients and their medical needs only. All else I leave to others and their expertise.”

“Wise. Often noses sniffing around business not their own. Some easily pushed back with little tap. Others requiring more knocking.”

“Good way to earn a broken nose.”

“I no broken nose. Only bruised knuckles and shoulder.” Leonid loomed in front of the table. His hair was askew, and his black jacket was draped around his wounded shoulder. His infectious grin was in sharp contrast to his father’s menacing one.

Grateful for the distraction, Wynn turned his full attention to his patient. “It’s that shoulder I’ve come to see you about. Shall we find a quiet corner?”

“No, here. I wish see our fine physician at work.” Sheremetev poured himself a dram of vodka, then signaled for the thick curtain to conceal them in muffled privacy. “While asking few things from son. Where have been?”

Leonid shrugged out of his jacket, then sat on the edge of the seat to unbutton his shirt. “Around.”

“Around gaming tables.”

“Da, and kitchen, and stage. All smooth running.”

“No doubt including dancers. One particular with black curls.”

Leonid reddened. “Da.”

“If caring one day take over family business, you need present more attention to entirety of operation and not ongoings of backstage. Sheremetev name one of success. First in Moscow and now Paris.” Sheremetev swallowed his vodka whole and plunked the crystal glass on the linen tablecloth, glaring at his son.

“Fifteen years White Bear serving as relaxation place for Russian nobles touring Europe capitals, comforting taste of home many thousand miles away. Now it sanctuary for nobles finding themselves cut from homeland. A venture no taken lightly.”

Silence pulsed between father and son. From the vein throbbing in Leonid’s neck, he was anything but silent internally.

Still standing, Wynn set his bag on the table and took the opportunity for a diversion as he examined the injury.

“The entry and exit have scabbed over nicely. You don’t require the bandage any longer, but keep the area clean and try not to put pressure on the shoulder. You should regain full use of it soon, as long as you stay away from scrapping.”

“Wound no matter for family honor,” Leonid said.

“I’ve seen enough honor injuries to last me a lifetime. Don’t add anymore to my needless count.”

“Try. No promise.”

“Taking good care of patients, Dr. MacCallan. Well they taught you at University of Glasgow.” At Wynn’s look of surprise, Sheremetev nodded. “My information gleaned from eyes and ears everywhere. Like knowing you top class four years in row, and submit thesis paper your second year with detailing surgical intervention of heart disease.”

“Putting Heart Disease Under the Knife,” he’d titled his two-hundred-page thesis. Congenital heart disease and damage to the four inner valves caused by rheumatic fever were difficult to diagnose at best, and most physicians remained skeptical of delving further than need be. A mystery, they said, that risk dictated remain so. Rigid old jossers. The heart was simply another part of anatomy, an unexplored territory of the human landscape. His paper lambasted their fears and stodgy practices that refused to concede evolving knowledge. His professors had been astounded. By the absurdity of such radical thinking and from a second year, no less, who believed himself capable of putting forward said absurdity.

While Leonid slid his shirt back on Wynn returned the unneeded bits of bandage to his bag and snapped it shut. “Dare I ask if you read my thesis?”

“Nyet, but had man on it. Consider his self expert with hearts now.”

“He was probably the only one to read it. I was certain my professors burned it in the courtyard along with the other heretical texts.”

“Heretics. Groundbreakers. One in the same.”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“Duke of Westminster? He believe in your groundbreaking theories for recommending you a position at Hôpital du Sacré-Coeur where he patron. Ties with him and your father go back to Eton College, da?”

“Mr. Sheremetev, has there ever been a time when your information was not mistaken?”

“Nyet.” The confident old man poured himself another vodka and downed it. He rolled the bottom of the drained glass around in circles, leaving wet marks on the tablecloth. “I can use man like you. Never know when needing physician, and I resting easier having your talent call on. Medical attention lacking to my countrymen this far from home.”

A private client list with a powerful patron at the top. Many physicians dreamed of such an opportunity, but Wynn wasn’t one of them. It was too safe, too predictable. Outweighing all other considerations, he had no desire to be pinned under Sheremetev’s thumb. The man was powerful, the epicenter of the Russian world he’d shrewdly created here in Paris. Wynn had seen enough to piece together precisely how this world was held together and he wanted no part of it.

He also knew better than to offend his host with outright refusal. “It’s my honor to attend any in need, though my duties are prioritized at hospital with the Tommies.”

The fleshy folds of Sheremetev’s neck twitched as he signaled for the velvet curtains to be drawn open. “Who this Tommy demanding all your time?”

“Tommy Atkins is a common reference for British soldiers. The military loves its jargon.”

In a jargon foreign yet becoming increasingly familiar to Wynn’s ear, Russian peeled from an opening door that had been obscured by large potted plants. Two burly men in evening dress escorted a woman in glittering gold who swayed laughing between them. A shimmering vision of silver glided down the stairs behind them. Svetlana.

Gone were the tattered rags and ill-fitting dresses that were naught to behold in the wake of this gown that skimmed over every curve and elegant line like pouring water. A magnificent armor that made her appear all the more fragile. Pale jewels winked at her throat, ears, and scattered among the fine swirls of hair pinned up to showcase a swan-like neck. A princess in all her glory, leaving Wynn precious little room to be anything other than struck by awe.

Princess Ana tittered in French as she swatted at her handlers, who were not the least bit perturbed by her antics. Discretion no longer a viable option, having drawn the attention of most of the room, the guards did their best to shield her from curious eyes while steering her toward the exit, but she was having none of it.

“Sheremetev! Où es-tu?” Ana scanned the crowd until her eyes lighted on Sheremetev’s table. With a cry of joy, she darted in their direction, knocking against no less than three tables while en route. She slipped around Wynn and slid into the booth, then leaned back against the cushion with a dreamy smile across her pinked face. “Such wonderful tables you have, Sheremetev. I’ve never played with such crisp cards. Not even in the Winter Palace. They play with the same decks since before Napoleon invaded Moscow.”

Svetlana glided to the table. Her cool gaze took in nothing but the soppy woman in front of her. “Mama, please. Let us retire for the evening before the spectacle becomes too much.”

“There is never too much of a good thing. Except for you.” Ana turned to Sheremetev. “My daughter would have me give up all manner of fun for propriety’s sake. There are days when I don’t believe she knows how to smile.”

Sheremetev ran his thick finger around the rim of his empty glass, considering as he looked at Svetlana. “Perhaps she not given reason to.”

“Tosh. She has the world in her feet—no, at her feet—and it is still not good enough. When will it measure up, Svetka?”

If possible, Svetlana straightened even further. “Come, Mama.”

“The evening is still young with too many exciting things waiting to be discovered. Is that vodka? A tipple if you will, dear friend.” Ana took the empty glass from Sheremetev and nudged it toward the bottle.

“There has been enough drink for one evening.”

“There is never enough to suit my mood, especially after that last disastrous hand. I lost a ruby ring and matching choker to a rather oily looking man. You don’t serve Cossacks here, do you, Sheremetev? The beastly lot cannot be trusted.”

“Enough, Mama. We are leaving.”

“You leave while I enjoy myself.” Ana took the glass now filled with clear liquid from Sheremetev and tipped it past her lips. “The first time in ages.”

Family squabble aside, the elder princess was well on her way to a drunken stupor. Wynn stepped forward.

“Her Highness is right, Princess. More drink will bring nothing good this evening.”

As if aware of him for the first time, Svetlana’s attention turned to him with a shot of ice. “Dr. MacCallan. How often your presence is found here. Though in this instance it is not required.”

“A gentleman should never dispute with a lady in public. This rule of engagement, however, does not impede me in a professional capacity as I’ve dealt with a fair share of inebriation and stand to argue that my unrequired presence may be of help. Allow me to escort you home.”

Svetlana’s expression never wavered, at least not to a casual observer. To one who knew where to look, indecision oscillated behind that glacier façade. An ability perfected by nobility and heightened to its zenith by her exacting standards where proper manners warred with a fuming dismissal. Which victor would he be left to contend with?

“I’m certain your services are greatly relied upon by our host, otherwise I cannot account for your continued presence when the hospital is better suited.” Ah, a cold dismissal hidden behind concerned manners. Fortunately for Wynn, he was immune to such tactics.

“As I told you before, when I find something I enjoy, I stick with it. Even when it would be easier to forgo.”

Leonid cleared his throat. “Sheremetev private carriage. I get.” Sticking his good arm into his jacket sleeve, he tugged the other side to cover his wounded shoulder and leaned close to Wynn’s ear. “Careful. Princess no appreciate hook you dangle.”

Wynn grinned. “If you want the best, you have to be willing to take a risk.”

“Risk eaten alive.” Leonid clicked his teeth together to emphasize his point. “Luck to you.”

As Leonid scuttled off to locate their transport, a waiter appeared at the table holding a bill of receipt.

“Princess Dalsky,” he said.

Ana demurred as if embarrassed to handle a concept so inferior as a bill.

Coming to her rescue, Sheremetev plucked the paper from the waiter’s hand and placed it facedown in front of the princess. “When you ready.”

To her credit, she made a good show of fumbling through her beaded handbag until at last emerging with just the right amount of disappointment.

“How embarrassing. I must have left my coin purse behind this evening. Cumbersome little thing when one is not accustomed to traveling with the common burden.”

“I understand, Lady Princess. Until next time.” Sheremetev took the bill and slipped it into his inner jacket pocket with a gentle pat.

Smiling with gratitude, Ana raised the little glass of vodka to her lips. And missed. Crystal clear drops dribbled onto the golden beads of her bodice. “Sacré bleu! My new gown. It was my favorite from all the new ones you gave us.”

Sheremetev whipped a hankie from his pocket and handed it to her. “Shed no precious tear. There many more where came from.”

“But this was my favorite one. With the matching shoes.”

“We will repay you at the earliest convenience, sir. For every bit of your magnanimousness shown to us.” The muscles in Svetlana’s throat constricted as if each word were forced from her.

“No more speak of it. Your lows are mine for shouldering as long as grant me the favor. Women of your rank and beauty no be forced to endure discards of regime that expelling you from splendor of which are accustomed to.” Sheremetev’s eyes cast between the bedecked women, weighing each gilded jewel in turn. “In meantime, have most pleasant evening and look forward next time you are gracing my humble doors. Doctor, you as well.”

Wynn inclined his head. “Good evening to you, sir. Ladies, shall we adjourn?”

A sleek black carriage pulled by two white horses waited for them out front. Settled inside on the opposite bench from the ladies, there wasn’t much room to accommodate his legs and their gowns. Every roll of the wheels brushed Svetlana’s skirts against him. Ana fell promptly asleep.

The interior was dark, shrouding them in the relief of obscurity. As the carriage turned, moonlight faintly caught the beads of Svetlana’s gown. Wynn resisted the urge to reach across the short distance to determine her realness or if she shimmered beyond his reach like the northern lights shifting across the sky during winter.

“I didn’t expect to see you.”

“There was no choice for it.” From the tone of her voice, he knew she sat straight as a rod. “Choice has become an option ill-afforded. For many things.”

Including wardrobes, it seemed. Jealousy pricked its tiny fangs into Wynn’s sense of pride. He would have liked to be the one to obtain suitable attire for her, though he’d scarcely call a sequined gown a garment of necessity during wartime. Then again, she was a princess. She might sleep in a tiara. Whatever the case might be, she’d found benevolence in a near stranger. Certainly, Sheremetev was somewhat Russian nobility himself, and there was something to be said for instant kinship upon meeting another citizen of your homeland while traveling afar, a thread of commonality linking memory and custom unique to that place understood by those who dwell there. Wynn had no such thread to her. His only claim was being present when blood was involved. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

“You’re enchanting tonight,” he said.

“The hour draws too late for enchanting.”

“Bewitching then. It’s close to midnight, which I believe is the proper time for such things, so you can’t fault me there.”

Her gown ruffled against his foot. “If you feel the need to remark on such things, do not sit in expectation of a swoon.”

“From you? Never. It might force you to slacken the rigidity so ingrained. I’d settle for a smile or even a nod. A twitch to acknowledge the compliment.”

“I never asked for a compliment.”

Her reactions were nothing short of a dare. A measure he was happy to supply. “No, but when a man is faced with the truth, he’s forced to confess it, be the recipient willing or not. Truth will out, as they say.”

“Some truths are better left unsaid.”

“Not when they rile you so easily.”

“What do you mean by this rile?” He imagined her fine eyebrows slanting over narrowed eyes.

“To rile, vex, needle. To provoke into reaction.”

“A game then for your own amusement. Tell me, what do other women do? Laugh and bat their lashes behind silken fans, begging for one more compliment?”

“Only the silly ones.”

“Perhaps they are better suited to your game of vexation.”

“I don’t want a silly woman.”

“A challenge for you then, considering all proper ladies are required a decorum of vacuous heads balanced precariously upon tittering laughter as they float about on clouds spun of gossip and boredom.”

“I prefer a challenge.” He leaned forward, eager to make out the delicate lines of her face that masked a temper. “Why else do I find myself so drawn to you?”

“A consummate need for disappointment would be my diagnosis. But then, you are the doctor.”

Wynn laughed, loud and clear. She might not enjoy the game, but he certainly did. A better equipped opponent he’d yet to encounter.

The carriage slowed to a halt and bounced as the driver dropped from his perch to open the door. Ana jerked awake and stared around in confusion.

“Have we arrived at the palace? Why are the torches not lit for us?”

“There is no palace, Mama,” Svetlana said. “This is the church.”

Wynn climbed out before turning to help the ladies.

Ana squinted at the three pointed towers of the church. The gold onion domes gleamed dully against the ink-blotted sky.

“The driver has brought us to the wrong place.” She spun around and glared at the man in question. “I shall inform my husband, the prince, of this negligence.”

“Mama, this is where we are staying now.” Svetlana took her mother’s arm and turned them to go around the back of the church. “Let’s go inside.”

“Like a serf? As soon as order is restored in Russia, I shall—” Ana pressed her fingers to her forehead. “Do you know, my head feels too light for this reprimand.” Her eyes fluttered closed and she wilted. Wynn caught her before she puddled on the cobblestones and hefted the unconscious princess into his arms before following Svetlana around back.

Reaching the cellar door, Svetlana eased it open as quietly as she could on its rusty hinges. It creaked like an unoiled trumpet on Judgment Day.

Ana’s eyes snapped open. Heavily dilated pupils stared up at Wynn. “Unhand me at once. I will have no improprieties taken of me.”

“Mama, please. You fainted,” Svetlana said.

“I should think so with the ill-treatment I’ve received. My nerves cannot handle the upset. Now, unhand me.”

Wynn set Ana on her feet. She flicked him away and started down the stairs on wobbly legs, clutching the walls for balance.

Wynn hurried to take her elbow. “Your Highness, allow me to escort you downstairs. The passage is dark and the steps less than stable.”

She slapped his hand away. “How many times must I command you to unhand me? Because you are a physician does not give you the right to manhandle as you see fit.”

A light flickered at the bottom of the steps as a small figure dressed in white appeared. “Mama? Svetka? Est-ce vous?” Marina, the younger sister.

“Oui.” Svetlana took her mother’s arm and led her down the remaining steps.

At the bottom each sister took a side to support their drooping mother and walked her into the cellar space that had become a dank home for the lost refugees. The smell of warm, unwashed bodies and linen hung pungent in the air, punctured only by snores and sleeping snuffles.

Wynn followed closely behind should the older woman’s sway turn into a drunken sprawl. “She’ll need plenty of water. Keep an eye on her when she sleeps and lean her on her side.”

Svetlana’s eyes narrowed over her shoulder as she looked back at him. “We are well-versed in the care of our mother during these times.”

“She said herself it’s been some time since she last imbibed. The alcohol will have absorbed into her blood much quicker.”

Whispering to her sister, Svetlana released her mother’s arm and turned to brush past Wynn. “A word.” She headed for the stairs and didn’t stop until she’d reached the courtyard. Shadows seeped through the trees and lingered over the stones with revered silence.

“It is time for you to leave.”

“Your mother—”

“Is not your concern.”

“You’d prefer I left her slumped in the gutter after she’s been to the bottom of the glass more than once. At a less than reputable place, I might add. Or mayhap you’d like to defend yourself against the rats prowling around after curfew in hopes of easy prey. Is that what you mean to tell me?”

“I have told— What do you mean by disreputable? The Sheremetevs are one of the most respected families in all of Moscow.”

“This isn’t Moscow. People do what they need to in order to stay on top. Have you not wondered why his club is able to stay open all hours of the night when the entire city is shut down for curfew? Have you stopped to take a good look at the men he surrounds himself with?” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “You need to be careful. It wasn’t a stray bullet that found Leonid that day.”

“You have proof of this?” She studied him, not backing down.

“It’s more of a gut instinct. Or will you tell me it’s no concern of mine?”

“Precisely. You, on more than one occasion when your interfering presence was not required nor desired, have not heeded my words to stay away, for here you are.”

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Wynn leaned against the wall. The rigors of Harkin’s surgery and Svetlana’s ever-present need for a battle of wills was catching up with him.

“Yes, here I am. Doing what I thought was a kind deed only to be slapped with ingratitude.”

“You harbor deep needs to be thanked with boundless applause and simpering. How do you sleep at night without accolades drifting you off?”

“First of all, something cannot drift you off. One simply drifts of their own accord. Secondly, you respond with nothing but snobbery. Is that what qualifies for manners in Russia? The ruder you are to a person the more refined that makes you? If so, you are the most refined lady I have ever met.”

Her eyebrows shot up, then slanted down in a scowl.

“You are the most exasperating man I have ever met. Unable to take a simple no because your opinion on the matter outweighs all else. Pride won’t allow you to admit that you have overstepped the mark, as you have done repeatedly since first we met.”

“Well, that’s put me in my place. You’re getting rather good at it, Princess.” Pursuing a woman was bound to offer a few scrapes to a man’s efforts, particularly a woman such as her, but when the bruised ego tempted him to lash out, it was time to withdraw his cards from the game. He shoved off the wall and conjured a smile. “Good night to you then. Remember to eat your apples. Helps keep us pesky doctors away.”