Today's Reading

Nora glanced at him, his cheek red and indented where it'd been smashed against the button of the tufted pillow. He must be tired, even more so than she, if he'd done three surgeries this afternoon. And he was scheduled to work at St. Bart's, one of London's enormous teaching hospitals, again in the morning. "You need to sleep. I'll manage fine."

"Don't walk," he said. "Take the carriage and rest your feet for a few minutes."

"The driver is already bringing it around," Mrs. Phipps said as Nora wrestled her boots back on, her feet magically sorer than when she'd stripped them off only minutes ago. "I'll have the sandwiches and your vaporizer put in."

As she disappeared, she kindly closed the door.

Daniel came up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders and working at her knotted trapezius muscles. "Are you certain, Nora? I'm happy to help."

"Go up to bed." She rummaged through her bag, open-ing the protective case of her newest acquisition, a beautifully crafted glass syringe. No cracks. Good. "I'll join you as soon as I can."

She hadn't meant any innuendo, but he gave a complaining groan and kissed the back of her neck. "Not soon enough."

She swallowed and waited for her stomach to return to its rightful place, then turned and placed a pert kiss on his head. "No fair making me regret going when I have no choice. And just so you know—" She paused at the doorway. "I'm going straight to sleep when I get home."

"We'll see." The sound of Daniel's laugh chased her down the hallway, the feel of his hands on her shoulders lingering until she was in the carriage, rolling toward Milk Street.

She wished she could have stayed home.

But she was needed and this promised to be today's most challenging case—probably the most demanding work she'd do all week. A humbling thought. Six months ago, in the midst of the furor she'd caused by registering with the medical association as a surgeon free to practice in the city of London—without letting them know N. Beady was a woman—she'd conducted a successful cesarean section, something no other English doctor could claim.

But the victory of her one incredible feat was fading, and she couldn't make a career out of dangerous and rare surgeries. If she kept doing only the work no other doctors would take—and no male patients would give her—next time she needed to do a cesarean, she'd be out of practice, dangerously so. She couldn't collect enough fees or keep her mind and fingers sufficiently trained from simply dressing burns, treating bunions, and removing ingrown toenails.

Nora took another bite of her sandwich and extracted the letter in her pocket. With traffic clogging the streets, she ought to have time to read it all. And she was anxious for news of her teacher and mentor, Magdalena Marenco, a surgeon and professor of obstetrics and midwifery at the University of Bologna. Magdalena would have good advice for her, whether she knew Nora's current troubles or not.

Nora broke the letter's seal with a quick flick of her thumb, smiling as she studied Magdalena's handwriting. It was so like her—flowing, bold letters that dominated the page. Another bite—Nora shook some falling crumbs off the paper—and she started to read, chewing as she devoured her former teacher's words.


My darling Nora,

Yes, I'm sure your husband is excellent, but I also know that you have no real yardstick by which to judge. After all, you never did sleep with Salvio Perra, which on the whole I think was wise. He's generous, but so easily offended. That becomes tiresome. However, I'm glad you are happy and glad that Daniel makes you so. I told Salvatore, and he looked like he'd bitten a lemon.


Nora huffed. Magdelena tended to be even more forthright in her letters than she was face-to-face. Wrenching off another bite of sandwich, she chewed furiously.


The recipe Dr. Croft sent for the primrose tincture is very nice. Please offer my thanks.

No, I'm afraid I have no female students since you left, excepting the midwives of course.

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