Magia Posthuma ✓

Twelve

They stayed with Sofie for about an hour – changing her bedding, helping her into a fresh chemise, mopping the blood from her skin and doing all they could to stave off any sign of infection – but in the end, too much damage had already been done. After ten days of sipping poison, the poor girl was incredibly weak and had lost a lot of blood; if she survived, she'd certainly feel the effects of it for the rest of the life.

Once Fiebe had fed the girl the chicken broth she'd brought along, Irina left her with an infusion of burdock, nettle and yellow dock root that would hopefully help her body flush whatever remained of the poison and aid in replenishing the lost blood – a medicine that she'd mixed for Fiebe to great effect – but the sad truth was that she had very little faith it was strong enough to work on Sofie. In spite of everything, Irina knew that she'd failed, and as she scooped up her basket and climbed down from the attic, she felt as though she'd left a small part of herself behind – not only the foolish part of herself that had believed that she could fix anyone given the chance, but the small part of her that had imagined she could be a capable doctor.

Fiebe took the basket from Irina. "She will live?" she asked as they made their way along the corridor, finding their way back to the noisy parlour and the tinkering sounds of the wonky harpsichord.

It was dark – gone midnight – but the brothel was still very much awake, with candlelight and laughter seeping through the cracks in the doors and spilling across the uneven, creaking floorboards.

"...I don't know," Irina replied with a shrug. "I hope so, Fiebe, but-"

"But she has medicine now," the girl replied with a firm nod and a painfully optimistic smile.

Irina's eyebrows pulled. "Yes, but unfortunately, I think it might be too late," she replied. "Perhaps if we'd got here sooner, or the other doctors hadn't refused to see her then things may have been different."

"They have no heart," Fiebe snarled.

Irina nodded as she hooked her maid's arm - grateful that she had someone beside her. "No, they don't." And, fuck them for it, she thought to herself. She wasn't going to say the words out loud initially, but then she realised that she didn't care enough anymore to hold them in. She was in a brothel after all for God's sake; the words would be as familiar as the moans muttering through the mottled plaster. Why was she kicking herself for trying and failing when the so-called real doctors hadn't even bothered? "Fuck the lot of them," she snapped.

Just ahead, one of the doors suddenly swung inwards – pouring warm light out into the corridor and onto the cracked and peeling walls. Irina stopped as the woman she'd spied on earlier emerged in a pink, silk dressing gown and mules – her blonde hair ragged. She swirled to face the open door – the pink silk fluid and flashing – and grinned as she dropped a quick curtsey.

She held out her palm as a hand reached out from inside the room and dropped a generous handful of coins into it.

The woman purred as she pocketed the coins. "Until next time, Conta," she said, sending Irina and Fiebe a curious glance before she turned on her heel and clipped off towards the parlour.

"We have to leave. Right now," Irina whispered as she lifted her mask and dragged her hood up and over her head. She kept her head down and her eyes forward as she grabbed Fiebe and quickly dragged her past the open door.

She managed perhaps three steps before a deep voice called after her. "...Duchess. What a pleasant surprise."

Irina's heart leapt into her throat. She stopped and turned – slowly – peering over her shoulder from behind her mask, from within the dark cocoon of her hood - filled with her mane of brown curls. How on earth did he recognise her? "...You mistake me, sir," she muttered.