68

Standing in front of Dr. Pugh, my stepmother was slim again, delivered of her child, her eyes big and dramatic against her high cheekbones. She looked as if she hadn’t been pregnant in years, though she’d only delivered in August. Godmother Althea had told me over the radio.

But I had been gone a long time. Alessandra looked different, and I was different.

I turned back to Daddy. “Dr. Gold, what were you saying?”

“Levi!” Dr. Pugh interjected sharply. “This is private. There are foreigners present and—and sailors. And the seneschal-elect—”

“Outranks everyone in this room,” I said again.

Alessandra stepped forward. “I believe I made the conditions of your coming home very clear.”

Torden moved to my side and took my hand—my left hand. His ring glittered on my finger.

My ring was exactly where it belonged, and so was Torden, and so was I.

“Are you wed?” she breathed.

“Interrupt the doctor again,” I said quietly, “and see what happens.”

I wanted the truth. And I wanted it immediately.

I put a hand on Dr. Gold’s shoulder. “Please, continue.”

“Blue Mass,” he blurted. His words came quickly, as if to get them all out at once. “It’s called Blue Mass, I mix it myself, it’s rose oil, licorice, marshmallow plant, mercury, and glycerol. Pugh recommended it, he said it’s a very common therapy in New York, he—”

Yu had stopped dead. If he’d had something in his hands, I was confident he would’ve dropped it.

“Mercury?” He dragged the word out, horror plain on his face.

Dr. Gold frowned. “Yes,” he said. “I prepare it myself, very carefully.”

Yu stared from Gold to Pugh, his handsome, solid face aghast. He said something in Zhōngwén and shook his head. “Not—mercury,” he said. “Element Hg. Not that.”

Yu waited, wanting to be told that he had misunderstood. But his ears hadn’t betrayed him.

Alessandra and Dr. Pugh had betrayed my father.

He rounded on Dr. Pugh. “I might expect this from local expertise. That one wasn’t even aware of the dangers of smoking. Potomac is removed—but if you have access to information anywhere, you have it in New York.” Yu’s jaw was set, so sharp it could’ve cut glass. “If anyone would know this medication was dangerous, you would have.”

I was shaking. “Tell me you didn’t know,” I said to Pugh, almost pleading. “Tell me you had a good reason to prescribe it.”

“Blue Mass has its—risks,” Pugh admitted. “But your father has been suffering from melancholia and its therapeutic qualities seemed to justify—”

“This man is dying. Any therapeutic benefits are clearly outweighed by the fact that he’s suffering aggressive nerve damage, which cannot have escaped your notice!” Yu exploded, jabbing a finger at Pugh. “I have read your oath, the one Hippocrates wrote. I took my own, from Sun Si-Miao. We’re physicians. We have a high calling, and you’ve dishonored yours.” Yu shook his head, disgusted.

Melancholia. The weight my father had carried in his bones for so long—the deep heaviness that had dragged at him, even after the sharp grief of my mother’s death had passed—it had a name.

And rather than support him, my stepmother had taken advantage of his vulnerability. Because she was greedy and hungry, and because she could.

And even that name—melancholia, it tolled in my ears—was not so fearsome as the other word Yu has used.

Dying.

I squeezed Torden’s hand tighter.

Dr. Gold was crouching, his head between his knees. “Do you mean to say—”

“Mercury is poison. We will discontinue this course of treatment immediately.” Yu held a hand out, and Dr. Gold stood. “We will set a course toward healing the seneschal at once.”

I crouched at my father’s side, looking at his closed eyes, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

My fear was cold as ice. But my anger at Alessandra and Dr. Pugh burned furious and feverish in my stomach.

My father would not die.

I looked up at Yu and Gold. “I leave him to your charge. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Yu acknowledged me with a nod.

When I stood, I felt ten feet tall. I felt myself grow, stretch, my shoulders squaring, like one of the giants from the stories in my godmother’s book. I took one, two, three strides toward Alessandra.

She was taller than me, still. But I had put on muscle from eating well aboard ship, from gardening, from scrubbing dishes and sheets and stones in Baba Yaga’s tower.

I towered before her.

“Step into the corridor, please.” I glanced at Pugh. “Both of you.”

My voice brooked no opposition. I was not surprised when both of them obeyed.