Page 172 of Feathers in the Wind
Inside my bright, newly renovated kitchen he stopped and took a step backwards. ‘What manner of a place is this?’
I looked around the room. Despite its expensive, modern fit out, it should have been immediately recognizable.
‘My kitchen,’ I said, with an uncertain quaver to my voice.
‘Kitchen? It’s like no kitchen I’ve ever seen. Where is your fire?’
‘In the lounge room. Now sit down.’
My guest slumped into the chair at the table. He looked completely out of place in the modern surroundings, his clothes heavy and cumbersome for the warm day.
I fetched my bag of medical supplies from the bathroom and returned to the kitchen, to find him sitting rigidly upright with his eyes screwed shut.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
He opened one eye and gave me a crooked smile. ‘Are you a witch?’
I laughed. ‘Witch? Hardly. Although Alan did suggest if I ever wanted to join the Association I would make the perfect witch. Do you know Alan Shepherd?’
He frowned and shook his head. ‘I think not.’
‘Strange. I thought you all knew each other. He’s with...let me think, what do they call themselves? Mortlock’s Regiment.’
The gray-green eyes widened. ‘A scurvy roundhead!’
I shrugged. With a professor of seventeenth century history in the family, the distinction between scurvy roundheads and cavaliers was not lost on me.
‘Quite possibly. It seems to be all about running around with dangerous weapons and drinking mates. Now let’s get that jacket off.’
Easier said than done. Re-enactors pride themselves on authenticity. To get to the jacket, we first had to remove the sword hanging from its baldric and untie the heavy silken scarf he wore around his waist. Then the dark blue woollen jacket had to be unlaced. Years of working in hospitals had made me quite adept at removing clothing from comatose patients and I had him down to shirt sleeves without hurting the injured arm.
‘There. That must feel better. Fancy wearing all that kit on a day like today. You must be truly mad. Now the shirt.’
He regarded me through narrowed eyes. ‘Do you know what you are doing?’
‘I’m a doctor,’ I replied.
‘A doctor? But you’re a woman.’
‘Last time I looked. Do you want me to see to that arm or not?’
The left sleeve of his shirt was stiff with drying blood but the material had not yet adhered to the wound. I removed the shirt without resorting to scissors, revealing a rather attractive, well muscled chest.
I clucked my tongue and turned my attention from the fine pectoral muscles to the arm, inspecting the deep, nasty gash in the firm biceps. This guy worked out.
The man raised his left arm to inspect the damage and grimaced but, apart from a grim tightening of his lips, my patient did not flinch as I cleaned around the wound.
It had been a long time since I had done a stint in ER, and my patients are normally under the age of eighteen, but I had served my time in an inner city London hospital and I recognized a bullet wound when I saw one. Something with a high velocity had winged him.
‘What did this?’ I enquired.
He held my gaze with his for a long moment before saying through clenched teeth, ‘It’s of no matter.’
I met his gaze and felt him willing me not to comment further. To be honest, I didn’t want the hassle of reporting a gunshot wound and all the attendant paperwork. I would patch him up and send him on his way. The less I knew, the better.
‘This cut should be stitched. When did you last have a tetanus shot?’ I asked.
His eyes widened. ‘I have never shot a tetanus in my life!’ He paused, frowning. ‘I’m not even sure I’ve seen one. Are they dangerous?’
