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gushing, arterial blood she had dreaded. But still she could not afford to wait and see if Lockhart turned up. Choking for a moment on her words, she asked for cloths, brandy and a needle threaded with gut.
    Behind her, one of the women started to cry.
    Hester talked all the time she worked. Most of it was probably nonsense; her mind was on the bloody flesh, trying to stitch it together evenly, without cobbling, without missing a vessel where the blood was still oozing, without causing more pain than was absolutely unavoidable.
    Silently, Margaret handed her more and more cloths, and took away those that were soaked and useless.
    Where was Lockhart? Why did he not come? Was he drunk again, lying in someone else’s bed, under a table, or worse, in a gutter where no one would ever recognize him, much less find him and sober him up? She cursed him under her breath.
    She lost track of how long it was since Margaret had sent the woman out. All that mattered was the wound and the pain. She did not even notice the street door opening and closing.
    Then suddenly there was another pair of hands, delicate and strong, and above all clean. Her back was so locked in position that when she straightened up it hurt, and it took her a moment to refocus her eyes on the young man beside her. His shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows, his fair hair was damp around his brow as if he had splashed his face with water. He looked down at the wound.
    “Good job,” he said approvingly. “Looks as if you’ve got it.”
    “Where have you been?” she replied between her teeth, overwhelmed with relief that he was there, and furious that he had not come sooner.
    He grinned ruefully and shrugged, then turned his attention back to the wound. He explored it with sensitive, expert touch, all the while looking every few moments at the patient’s face to make sure she was no worse.
    Hester considered apologizing to him for her implied criticism and decided it did not matter now. It would not help, and she did not pay him, so perhaps he owed her nothing. She caught Margaret looking at her, and saw the relief in her eyes also.
    It seemed as if the bleeding was stopped. She handed Lockhart the final bandages soaked in balm and he bound them in place, then stood back.
    “Not bad,” he said gravely. “We’ll need to watch her for infection.” He did not bother to ask what had happened. He knew no one would tell him. “A little beef tea, or sherry if you have it. Not yet, but in a while. You know what else.” He lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug and smiled. “Probably better than I do.”
    Hester nodded. Now that the immediate crisis was over she was overwhelmed with weariness. Her mouth was dry and she was trembling a little. Margaret had gone to the stove for hot water so they could wash the worst of the blood away, and to make tea for them.
    Hester turned to the waiting women, and the question in all their faces. “Give it time,” she said quietly. “We can’t tell yet. It’s too soon.”
    “Can she stay ’ere?” one of them asked. “Please, missus! ’E’ll only do it again if she goes back.”
    “What’s the matter with him?” Hester let her fury out at last. “He could have killed her. He’s got to be a madman—you should get rid of him. Don’t you have some kind of—”
    “It weren’t Bert!” another of the women said quickly. “I know that ’cos ’e were out cold drunk in the gutter w’en it ’appened. I know that fer sure, ’cos I seed’im meself. Great useless, bleedin’ oaf!”
    “A customer?” Hester said in surprise and increasing anger.
    “Nah!” The woman shuddered.
    “Yer dunno that,” the third woman said grimly. “Fanny in’t sayin’ ’oo it were, missus. She’s that scared she won’t say nuffin’, but we reckon as it’s some bastard as she knows, but it in’t ’er reg’lar pimp, ’cos like Jenny said, ’e were blind drunk an’ not fit ter beat a rice puddin’, never mind do