“This will sting a wee bit.” He swabbed the area around the wound. She didn’t flinch. Good. That was the easy part. “Now, with your right forefinger and thumb I want you to pinch the skin between said fingers on your opposite hand. Pinch as hard as you dare.”
“This will help my leg how?”
“It’s part of the procedure. Trust me.” It had nothing whatsoever to do with the procedure but gave patients a task to occupy them for the seconds he needed to extract the foreign object. No one had ever questioned him before. Taking a firm grip on the forceps, Wynn pinched the glass and tugged. It moved slightly. The woman made a slight noise in her throat. “Are you squeezing?”
“Yes.” Her voice was tight. He knew how painful it must be, brave girl.
Steadying himself for the required exertion, Wynn gave a mighty yank. The glass pulled free. Bright red blood spilled out. He wiped the area clean as best he could, then made a neat row of quick sutures before dabbing on more iodine and wrapping a clean bandage around her leg. He pulled her skirt down for modesty and stepped back.
“All done.”
The woman’s white fingers were latched around the edges of his desk, her mouth a colorless slash across her pale face.
Wynn gently touched her shoulder. “You can breathe now.”
She took a deep breath, breaking free from the protective shell of silence the wounded often enclosed themselves within to endure a procedure. “Thank you.”
“Care for the souvenir?” Wynn pointed at the jagged bit of bottle. Dirty piece of work that. The Frenchwoman who threw it ought to be forced to crawl over the fragments herself.
“It is common to keep an object of such torment?”
“Many of the soldiers do with their shrapnel and bullets. I wrap the items in a strip of cloth and tie it around the patient’s arm after surgery. It’s a badge of honor that they like to show the folks back home.”
“It is not a reminder I need.” Smoothing her skirts, she eased off the desk in one fluid movement.
Wynn turned to his other patient with an encouraging smile. “Now, madam, it’s your turn.” Kneeling, he quickly unwrapped the older woman’s hand. The bleeding had stopped to reveal clean but deep cuts. The kind only slivered glass or metal could inflict. “How did she receive this?”
The young woman hesitated. “She tried to remove the glass from my leg. In Russia she is considered a great healer.”
“It was you who concocted that green paste.” Wynn held up the linen he’d used to clean away the mixture. The old woman nodded in a knowing manner and replied in Russian.
“A mash of yarrow mixed with comfrey water,” the young woman translated.
“Good work,” Wynn said.
The young woman translated softly in Russian, each word brightening the old woman’s face. She seemed to ask a question in return.
The young woman nodded. “
Grinning to reveal a missing tooth, the old woman patted Wynn’s cheek with her free hand. Dabbing more iodine onto a clean swatch of gauze, he cleaned her cuts. A hiss of air escaped her cracked lips.
A thick braid of pale blond slipped over the young woman’s shoulder as she bent close to the old woman’s ear. “
Wynn nodded in encouragement. “You’re doing fine, Mrs. Babushka.”
The young woman’s eyebrows drew together. “Why do you call her this?”
“Is that not her name?”
“
“Oh. Forgive me. I meant no disrespect.”
“It is very respectful to call older generations this in recognition of their wisdom.”
“What a relief. My own grandmother would’ve skelped me if I dared to call her something so informal in public. A great protector of propriety, she was.”
The old woman looked up at the younger lady and asked something. Nodding, the younger lady spoke quickly, gesturing to Wynn a few times. As she finished translating, the old woman’s face crackled into a smile.
She patted Wynn’s cheek. “
“Mrs. Varjensky says you are sweet.”
Wynn bowed over the injured hand still in his grasp. “A pleasure, Mrs. Varjensky. I’m Edwynn MacCallan, but I prefer Wynn.”
“
The young woman blanched and placed a hand on Mrs. Varjensky’s shoulder. “Svetlana Dalsky. Please.”
Brow wrinkling, Mrs. Varjensky rattled off a string of Russian, which Svetlana’s response quickly combated.
Taking it as a conversation on the forgoing of noble titles that he wasn’t intended to hear, Wynn grabbed a bandage and quickly wrapped Mrs. Varjensky’s hand.
“It may take a few days to heal, but if the pain worsens you and your grandmother—”
“She is not my grandmother,” Svetlana said.
“No? I thought . . . Well, that’s me with both feet in my mouth now.”