Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(83)
I’d seen something.
I wanted to see it again.
“What was that . . . ?” I asked quietly, holding her chin aside, stretching her neck. There: a small slit of skin, fluttering. As light as if it’d been cut with a razor, a tiny fillet of flesh that wrinkled when I touched it. I felt the two more horizontal flaps before I saw them. That made three altogether, with the start of a fourth, not quite as long. Not quite as defined.
All of them sucked shut against her throat, lying so flat that if I hadn’t known they were present, I would’ve never noticed them. I tried to touch them again, but felt almost nothing. The faint texture of paper cuts, or maybe the delicate, almost not-even-there-ness of a small fish’s fins.
Her lungs were working again, heaving and hauling air in and out of her chest. It was a ragged, damp sound and I hated it, even though I’d been fighting for it all this time. She was breathing, and she still was not herself—no more so than when she’d been below the surface, taking oxygen through what must have been gills.
I write the word again: gills.
Nance had grown gills, or been granted them, or acquired them as part of her affliction—I don’t know. But she had them, and I am not such a great liar that I could pretend otherwise.
Whatever had happened, however she was being changed, she wasn’t changed all the way yet. I’d pulled her out in time, even if doing so had still failed her in some awful way I did not understand. Her body still functioned, if reluctantly, the way it ought to—and not through some unnatural mechanism that ought to be left to the fish in the sea.
“Nance—” I begged her, and it sounded like I was crying, too, but I wasn’t. My eyes were the only thing dry in the entire room, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’d finally happened: I was all cried out.
Nance didn’t respond, except with that awful wheeze that had become the sound of her breath.
? ? ?
From down the hall came the never-ending ringing of Emma’s bell, but I scarcely heard it. It’d become just another noise, like the dripping of the faucet or the hissing fuss of something that struggles to breathe air. Just another sign of horror, another note of impending awfulness that I was no doubt powerless to stop.
Over my shoulder I shouted, “Emma, I hear you—shut up!”
The ringing stopped, from surprise or satisfaction I cannot say. But it stopped, and that was all I wanted. That, and for Nance to breathe and open her eyes and look at me.
Might as well have wished for the moon.
Owen Seabury, M.D.
APRIL 30, 1894
LETTER TO CHRISTOFF DANE, C/O UNIVERSITY OF RHODE ISLAND, KINGSTON
Hello there, Christoff—and I hope all is well at that wonderful new university of yours. Not quite ten years on, is it? You must be very proud; I’ve heard only exceptional things about you and your research programs, particularly with regard to that very fine agricultural experiment station; and although I realize it’s been some time since last we spoke, it is because of that station (and its general subject matter) that I write you today.
To be more specific, I’m interested in your progress and practice concerning a vaccine against Clostridium tetani—a vaccine which I’m led to understand you’ve developed with some degree of success. Or if not you, personally, then I seem to recall that you’re performing further development and refinement upon it. I hope you’ll forgive my lack of clarity on the matter, as it’s been a trying series of months, and I’m not at my sharpest right now.
I suppose you think my request must come out of the clear blue, but I must impress upon you the dire nature of my inquiry: Here in Fall River, just a handful of miles to your east, we find ourselves afflicted with a particularly virulent strain—one that’s striking willy-nilly throughout the town. I can’t say how it’s evolved in its present aggressive state, only that I’m somewhat confident that this is indeed the bacterial foe we face.
I had considered taking the morning to ride out and visit you in person, so that we might have this conversation over coffee or breakfast, but I pray you’ll understand why I’ve decided against it. My reasons are many and varied—not least of all because I have a sudden new wave of desperately ill people suffering from the condition, and to the last man, woman, and child, they seek my guidance. And besides that, what if it turns out Fall River is inadvertently incubating some terrible strain that might spread? I could not live with myself if I were to carry it with me, against my knowing, and pass it along to you or your students.
I realize that this must sound paranoid, but I ask you to trust me. I would also ask you to remain where you are, and to speak of this to no one. I do not wish to cause any panic. I only wish to contain the situation before it grows wholly out of control.
Ours is a little place, close-knit and quiet. Our people prefer their privacy, even in the face of danger. Please allow me to make some serious effort toward solving the crisis quietly, before we take the next obvious step and involve more public authorities.
I honestly believe that we can solve this problem. If I did not, I would’ve summoned higher assistance already.
To this end, I was hoping I could impose upon you for any literary works you may have on hand—any lesson plans, research notes, or the sort—that you could share with me. I have access to a very good laboratory, and there’s a chance I can generate a vaccine or treatment of my own if I could only learn what is required; but I do not know how many days that is likely to take, and we seem to be short even on hours. So if there’s any chance you have any serums already made, I would beg of you to send whatever you can spare with all haste.