Anatomy: A Love Story(36)

The philosophy of medicine during the Tudor period was dominated by the notion of the four humours, found in the writings of Hippocrates (ca. 460 B.C.) and further developed by Galen of Pergamon (ca. A.D. 129), the noted physician of Ancient Rome.

Physicians operated under the understanding that each individual had a dominant humour, or fluid, that governed their personality, and any ailment could be understood in the context of either an excess or deficiency of said humour. The four humours were: blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile.



BLOOD

Sanguine

Hot and moist

Friendly, frequently joking and laughing; have rose-tinted appearance and good skin

Air

Spring

Liver



PHLEGM

Phlegmatic

Cold and moist

Low-spirited, often forgetful; will grow white hair young

Water

Autumn

Brain



YELLOW BILE

Choleric

Hot and dry

Bitter, short-tempered and miserable; skin might appear greenish

Fire

Summer

Gallbladder



BLACK BILE

Melancholic

Cold and dry

Lazy and sickly; black hair and black eyes

Earth

Winter

Spleen





17




“OI!”

Hazel had been so distracted as she exited the Anatomists’ Society, so buoyed by her own purpose and determination, that she had taken a single, confident stride past the threshold back out onto the rain-dappled stones of the Edinburgh close and immediately collided with a stranger.

“I’m so s— It’s you!”

Hazel had meant to utter an apology, but she looked up as she was straightening her skirts and saw him: the boy from before the surgical demonstration, who had pulled her into the narrow alley and escorted her, like her own Virgil through Hell, to the secret place underneath the riser seating. He stood before her now, seemingly also too stunned by their surprise encounter to speak, and Hazel was able to get a good look at his face.

Yes, it was him, the boy from before, with a tangle of black hair that reached the nape of his neck, and the thin hooked nose bumped in the center. And then there were his odd gray eyes, which up close, Hazel saw, had irises rimmed in navy blue. Blue was laced in his clear gray eyes like poison dissolving in water. He was tall, at least six feet, but his trousers hit only at his ankles, even though someone had released the hem to make them longer. His shirt, too, was too short at the wrists, although Hazel identified no fewer than four spots where tears had been carefully sewn closed with clumsy but small stitches.

“Miss Sinnett,” the boy said, revealing his pointed canine teeth as he spoke. “Or was it Lady Sinnett? Either way, it seems we meet again.”

“Hazel is fine. And I’m sorry to say I can’t do you the honor of remembering your name, seeing as you never gave me one.”

The boy grinned and winked, although it might have just been him squinting against the setting sun that had managed to slip through the entryway of the close from High Street and illuminate them both in the pale yellow of late autumn’s final efforts at sunshine. “And you’re not going to. I don’t find myself cavorting with high society ladies like yourself too often, so it doesn’t strike me as an introduction one needs to make.”

“We’ve already met. Twice,” Hazel reasoned.

“Aye, but is it really meeting if I haven’t given ye a name?” he said, and this time he winked for real.

Hazel felt an unfamiliar warmth creep up from her navel to her chest, a terrible excitement that she had felt before only while setting up an experiment, still anticipating its results. It was the feeling of anticipation, of wanting to know what would happen next, combined with the sensation of having drunk a full glass of champagne on an empty stomach.

The boy extended his hand, and Hazel reached out to take it.

The moment their skin touched, the champagne bubbles in Hazel’s stomach foamed with frenetic energy. It was Galvanism, Galvini’s electric shocks—there was no other way to describe it—a current of lightning that flowed from his hand through hers and directly into her pounding heart.

“It’s lovely to meet ye again, Hazel Sinnett,” he said, shaking her hand. His own was so big that her hand all but disappeared in it.

From the mouth of the close, where it met High Street, a boy called out between cupped hands: “Oi! Currer! Quit flirting!” He looked older than the gray-eyed boy, but he was shorter and stockier, as if his body were a compact square of muscle. “You got the back pay, yeah? Just give me my half so I can head to the pub. I swear to God, Jack, don’t stiff me on this one, mate. Bailey already cut my credit at the Arms, and I need a drink something fierce now, I do.”

Jack groaned and pulled his hand from Hazel’s. “Dammit, Munro! I’ve got the money. Just head down to the pub now, and tell Bailey to put your first drink on my tab. Trot along, now!” Jack purposefully tried to avoid looking back at Hazel, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Munro looked unconvinced, but he disappeared beyond the stone alley anyway. Jack watched him go, until he turned around to see Hazel standing in place with an eyebrow raised. “Jack … Currer, is it?”

Jack Currer, the gray-eyed boy, swept down into an exaggerated bow. “At your service.”