Five pairs of eyes watched Gareth. Five faces turned toward him, curious and amused, expectant and nervous. All were attentive for the moment. Gareth suspected it would be no mean job to hold that attention, eager though the students were.
Olivia had always managed it. Olivia was at home on a stage, and if he wasn’t, that was a point in his favor under most circumstances. She also had flashy magic tricks to her advantage. The magic might have been real, but the tricks were still flashy. Showmanship. Gareth had knowledge, and therefore would need none of that.
Besides, he was trying not to think about the woman.
“Good afternoon,” Gareth began. “At Mr. Grenville’s request, I’ll be teaching you the basics of medicine”—he gestured to the table in front of him, where he’d laid out some neatly rolled bandages and straight pieces of wood—“and anatomy. Miss Donnell?” She was too young, really, to be a “Miss,” but he wouldn’t make her the only one in the class he addressed by first name. “You have a question?”
“Will we be learning about diseases and poisoning too?” she asked, eyes serious and steady in her freckled face. “Or mostly broken bones and cuts and things?”
“Internal and external both,” said Gareth, trying not to look as surprised as he felt. “Of course, this will not qualify any of you to practice medicine under any normal circumstances, nor will we particularly touch on surgery. Not most types. I’ll be teaching you what the late Major Shepherd called ‘first aid’: the immediate care of a wounded patient.”
He saw recognition in Miss Woodwell’s face—hardly surprising, given her father—and, more curiously in Fitzpatrick’s.
The others didn’t seem to know the term, but Waite and Fitzpatrick exchanged a look before the older boy raised his hand. “In adverse conditions, I assume, sir?” he asked when Gareth called on him.
Long after midnight, and a wind that did nothing to cool anyone, particularly the men who tossed and turned on their beds, but had managed to put out half the lamps. Screaming. Crying. The smell of blood, the cleanest smell in the air.
“Yes,” said Gareth. “As far as we can manage them.” He cleared his throat. “Today, however, we’ll begin with theory. The major arteries in the human body…”
Words and theory could make a wall when he needed them to. Gareth had discovered that some time ago. Overseas, his construction had often been slapdash and hasty, but it had served him well enough. Now he built carefully, brick by brick, speaking of the jugular and the carotid, the femoral and the radial, naming things so he would picture them less vividly.
“Some of you, I am sure, are wondering about supernatural healing. Hard not to, I’d imagine, given your presence here. It exists. I’d be a fool to deny it.” Gareth allowed himself a small smile at that. “By and large, though,” he continued, “I intend to stay focused on the normal aspects of medicine. Tell me why. Mr. Fairley?”
“Magic’s still easier if you know what’s going on, sir.”
Gareth nodded. “That’s part of it. You can pour all the power you want into a broken leg, but if you don’t know how the bones are supposed to line up, your patient’s likely to end up worse off than before. To put it lightly.”
He’d come into his power early, too early to remember his first experiments very clearly at all. Nevertheless, he did recall what he’d been able to do at fourteen and how clumsy it had been in hindsight. Medical school had taught him what to reach for and what to avoid, and Gareth thanked God he hadn’t tried anything really serious beforehand. Broken bones, at any rate, were reasonably straightforward.
“That’s one reason,” he said. “Another reason is that most of you won’t use it.”
He noted the reactions: Miss Woodwell’s skepticism, Fitzpatrick’s disappointment. Elizabeth, he noticed, seemed not to care very much one way or the other. She’d been more interested in the pulmonary arteries. Fairley didn’t look particularly surprised either. It made sense. They, out of all the students, might most easily have figured out what Gareth was about to say.
“Supernatural healing is an inborn talent, like controlling the weather or floating on air. I have this particular talent. Had it most of my life.” Gareth cleared his throat and repressed the urge to run a hand through his hair or to pick up a pen and toy with it as he spoke. He’d never spoken of his abilities so bluntly before, and the words dropped like lead weights onto the floor. “There may well be other people with the same talent. As far as I’m aware, none of you have it. Therefore, there’s not much use in talking with you about magical healing.”
He stepped back, letting them digest that, and Miss Woodwell raised a hand. Gareth nodded at her.
“Natural talent isn’t the only method, though. Sir,” she added with a half-rueful grin for which Gareth couldn’t fault her. She did make a very odd schoolgirl. “There must be ceremonial magic for healing. It’s such a basic sort of a need. I’d bet you anything there are spells in some of the books here, at that.”
“It’s quite possible,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have much to do with magic, but I would imagine everything I just said still applies. There is, after all, likely a reason the Grenvilles asked me to teach this class.”
Miss Woodwell dropped her eyes. “Of course. Sorry, sir.” She looked embarrassed but not cowed, which would have been a relief had Gareth been at all concerned about intimidating her. He thought a cavalry charge would find the task difficult.
It seemed he was to live out his days surrounded by headstrong women. If his sister had ever shown the least interest in magic, Gareth would have suspected a curse.
“Quite all right,” he said. “Honestly, as long as you also pay attention here, you could do worse than find those spells. Especially if—” Gareth hesitated, looked at Elizabeth, and then remembered some of the faces he’d seen white with pain and how young they’d been. “Especially considering what you’ve signed up for. I’d ask Mr. Grenville about them, if I were you.”
“Or Mrs. Brightmore,” said Elizabeth thoughtfully. “Thank you, sir.”
“Yes,” said Gareth. He did work with Olivia. There was no changing that, not without treating her badly or leaving himself, neither of which he would do. Therefore, he was not about to flinch whenever anyone spoke her name. “Now, if you and Miss Woodwell would come up here, we can begin the practical part of today’s lesson.”
As the girls rose, he heard footsteps approaching in the hall outside.
They were light. Probably female. There were a number of women in the house. The person approaching could have been Mrs. Grenville or Mrs. Edgar or one of the maids. However, he was in the room where Olivia had taught, now sitting in the chair he’d started occupying when he’d listened to her, and he couldn’t help but wonder.
The footsteps grew closer then stopped just outside the door.
She could come in. Gareth had never said anyone should stay away from his classes. Olivia would make a seventh person, which would let Gareth out of practice-dummy duty, and she could even, perhaps, answer some of the questions about healing with ceremonial magic.
It would be rather nice, actually, if Olivia did decide to join them. Gareth would have the opportunity to prove he could work with her, that he was enough in control of himself to treat her as a colleague without any question of either incivility or…
Outside, the footsteps began again. Whoever it was passed the door, headed down the hall, and was gone.
Gareth fought back the urge to swear.