The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [272]
“Sterile meaning that it hasna got the germs in it, not that it doesna breed?” He gave my microscope a rather wary glance.
“Yes. Or rather—it doesn’t breed germs, because there aren’t any there.”
With the countertop cleared, save for the microscope and the jars of penicillin-containing broth—or at least I hoped that’s what they were—I began the preparations for surgery, taking down my small case of surgical instruments, and fetching a large bottle of grain alcohol out of the cupboard.
I handed this to Jamie, along with the small alcohol burner I had contrived—an empty ink bottle, with a twisted wick of waxed flax drawn up through a cork stuck into the neck.
“Fill that up for me, will you? Where are the boys?”
“In the kitchen, getting drunk.” He frowned in concentration, carefully pouring the alcohol. “Is the urine of wee lassies not clean, then? Or is it only harder to get?”
“No, actually, it isn’t as clean as that of boys.” I unfolded a clean cloth on the countertop and laid out two scalpels, a pair of long-nosed forceps, and a bunch of small cautery irons. I dug about in the cupboard, unearthing a handful of cotton pledgets. Cotton cloth was hideously expensive, but I had had the good fortune to cajole a sack of raw cotton bolls from Farquard Campbell’s wife, in return for a jar of honey.
“The . . . um . . . route to the outside isn’t quite so direct, you might say. So the urine tends to pick up bacteria and bits of debris from the skin folds.” I looked over my shoulder at him and smiled. “Not that you ought to go feeling superior on that account.”
“I shouldna dream of it,” he assured me. “Are ye ready, then, Sassenach?”
“Yes, fetch them in. Oh, and bring the basin!”
He went out, and I turned to face the east window. It had snowed heavily the day before, but today was a fine, bright day, clear and cold, with the sun reflecting off the snow-covered trees with the light of a million diamonds. I couldn’t have asked for better; I should need all the light I could get.
I set the cautery irons in the small brazier to heat. Then I fetched my amulet from the cabinet, put it round my neck so it hung beneath the bodice of my gown, and took down the heavy canvas apron from its hook behind the door. I put that on, too, then went to the window and looked out at the cold icing-sugar landscape, emptying my mind, steadying my spirit for what I was about to do. It was not a difficult operation, and I had done it many times before. I had not, however, done it on someone who was sitting upright and conscious, and that always made a difference.
I hadn’t done it in several years, either, and I closed my eyes in recollection, visualizing the steps to take, feeling the muscles of my hand twitch slightly in echo of my thoughts, anticipating the movements I would make.
“God help me,” I whispered, and crossed myself.
Stumbling footsteps, nervous giggles, and the rumble of Jamie’s voice came from the hallway, and I turned round smiling to greet my patients.
A month of good food, clean clothes, and warm beds had improved the Beardsleys immensely, in terms of both health and appearance. They were both still small, skinny, and slightly bowlegged, but the hollows of their faces had filled out a bit, their dark hair lay soft against their skulls, and the look of hunted wariness had faded a little from their eyes.
In fact, both pairs of dark eyes were presently a little glazed, and Lizzie was obliged to grab Keziah by the arm in order to prevent his stumbling over a stool. Jamie had Josiah gripped firmly by the shoulder; he steered the boy over to me, then set down the pudding basin he carried under his other arm.
“All right, are you?” I smiled at Josiah, looking deep into his eyes, and squeezed his arm in reassurance.