Dead of Winter - James Goss [14]
Something very bad is happening here. It’s like this whole clinic is a snow globe that’s being shaken and shaken and shaken.
Is this place a hospital? Just because people are getting better does that mean they are being cured? Depends how you look at it. Jam. Chutney. Chutney. Jam.
I know an old man called Michael Finnegan
He grew fat and then grew thin again
He had twelve lives
Then had to begin again
Poor old Michael Finnegan
Begin again.
A Letter from Maria
St Christophe
6th December 1783
Dear Mother,
Good news! Today my new friend Amy was feeling ever so much better, so please don’t worry that I am still feeling lonely. I went to see her after breakfast and found her sat up in bed, a cunning look on her face that reminded me of that housemaid who kept helping herself to the teaspoons.
‘Morning, kid,’ she said. ‘I was wondering if you fancied joining me on a secret mission.’
She was up to something, I knew that. But I didn’t really mind, as Amy is great fun and wouldn’t ever get up to any harm.
‘What kind of secret?’ I asked, hoping this wouldn’t be like when Eloise tried to run away with that coachman.
Her eyes lit up excitedly. ‘Well, it’s like this,’ she said, beckoning me up onto the bed. ‘Dr Smith—’
‘I like him,’ I said.
‘So do I,’ she agreed. ‘Very much. He’s handsome, don’t you think? Well, he wants to know if there are any… secret patients. You know, VIPs hidden somewhere around the building. Nothing naughty or dangerous. Just people that Dr Bloom might not want us to know about.’
I considered. ‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘I don’t think Dr Bloom would care that much what you knew. But Madame Bloom… she’d be ever so cross if she found you where you shouldn’t be.’ I paused. ‘Or perhaps that’s just how she is with me.’
‘So come on, tell me, Maria,’ she said. ‘Where aren’t you allowed to go?’
I looked down at the floor, considering. I knew I’d tell her. I just didn’t want to seem too eager. ‘All right,’ I said at last. ‘There are Prince Boris’s rooms.’
Amy laughed delightedly. ‘Prince Boris?’ She clapped her hands together.
‘He’s very handsome,’ I sighed. ‘And Russian.’
Amy ruffled my hair. ‘A hot Russian with the cold dead eyes of a killer? Bring it on!’ She seemed excited.
I was doubtful. ‘I don’t think he’s killed anyone. I mean, he’s probably killed ever so many peasants, but they really don’t count in Russia.’
‘Um,’ said Amy.
‘But he’s very nice. He has chocolate.’
Amy fell back against the pillow, smiling. ‘Sounds like my ideal man.’
Which is how I ended up wheeling Amy to meet Prince Boris. I found a bath chair in one of the corridors and pushed her quite easily. She said it reminded her of going round a superb market with a trolley. What emporiums they must have in England where one is wheeled around in chairs! I would so like to visit an English Shop, Mother. The superb markets of White Rose can’t be as good as the delicatessens of Paris, but apparently the Tescaux family stock ever so many things.
The chair squeaked, which made us both giggle, and it honestly wasn’t that hard moving Amy around. She kept protesting and apologising that ‘her boys’ were ‘out and about’. She pulled a face. ‘Honestly, when you grow up you’ll learn you may as well try herding cats as keeping men in one place,’ she told me solemnly, which I vowed to remember.
Prince Boris still has that quite nice set of rooms in the west wing of the resort. Normally that dreadful Mr Kosov is around and chases me away, or sometimes plays cards with me, but there was no sign of him today, so I just knocked at the door.
‘Come in!’ yelled Prince Boris. He was speaking French and he does it ever so well.
Amy was immediately struck by Prince Boris. He’s ever so nice, isn’t he, Mother? He was sitting up in bed, reading, wrapped up in furs. Looking every inch how a Russian Prince should look – handsome,