The Dollmaker by Morgan Shamy

3

THE GIFT

The next day, excitement buzzed underneath Dawn’s skin as she stood in the studio watching the girls dance. She came to check in on Rose to see if her feet were feeling better. White tutus swished before her; pointe shoes were quick on the ground. The girls circled one another, arms floating through the air, with Caldwell pounding a stick hard on the floor, keeping tempo. The morning light slanted in on their flawless faces, heads turning side to side as they glided together.

A golden curl had escaped from Rose’s bun, cascading down her back. Dawn smiled at the sight. It was the first time in a while she hadn’t seen Rose done up perfectly, from her lips to her lashes to her hair. Just the small flaw made her seem human. When they were little, they’d play outside for hours, and Rose always took great care not to soil her dresses, while Dawn always came home with green and brown stains on her stockings and skirts.

Rose flittered around the studio, her carriage light and wraith-like. The rest of the girls struggled to move in sync. A couple bumped into each other, and Caldwell tapped his stick harder. They were all orphans like Rose, and clearly not living up to the standards of the theater.

Dawn couldn’t stop thinking about the tonsillectomy she was to assist with later that day. It would be her first real surgery since medical school, and her palms itched in anticipation. She could almost feel the cool steel in her hand, the weight of the heavy knife. She imagined herself hovering over the patient, preparing for the incision.

“No!” Caldwell yelled. “Stop!” The music ceased, and he tapped his stick harder. “Land your pirouettes in fifth. Use your spot to bring the turn fully around. Dig your standing legs into the floor!”

Rose peeked back at Dawn and gave her a small smile. Dawn waved back and pointed at Rose’s feet, lifting her eyebrows. Rose gave a soft nod, before turning back to Caldwell. Good. Her feet were feeling better.

Knowing that Rose was feeling better, Dawn decided it was time to prep for surgery. Even though the procedure only took seconds, the preparations would take much longer. The instruments would need to be disinfected and arranged, the bedding cleaned, the ether prepared. Dawn spun to the door and rammed into something hard. Strong arms gripped her shoulders, pushing her back, and Gideon Hemsworth’s face came into view. The young gentleman’s expression seemed to falter, as if taking a minute to recognize her, before his dark brows pushed over his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Dawn gasped.

The room paused, and Dawn edged away from him.

“Ah, Gideon, welcome.” Caldwell marched forward with outstretched arms. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to the new owner of the theater, Mr. Hemsworth.”

Dawn inched farther off to the side. Rose stiffened, her cheeks flushing. Whispers erupted through the room as Gideon straightened his coat.

He had bought the theater? What would he want to do with a theater? Wasn’t he busy enough being the nephew of a dirty old man?

Gideon eyed Dawn for another moment before he faced the class. Shadows played off the fine grooves of his face, dark, like his tailored coat. He kept his expression grim.

“Coppelia is to open next week,” Gideon said, “and I’ll be assisting with all rehearsals to make sure everything is up to par. I won’t sit back and watch like the other owners before me. You should expect to see me and be prepared to take my criticism. If you don’t, I’ll ask you to leave. I won’t have a mediocre ballet theater on my hands.”

Caldwell rubbed a hand over his chest, his white shirt open. His gaze skated over to Rose before it returned to Gideon. Sweat ran down the girls’ faces and necks, their black tunics sticking to their skin. They stood frozen, waiting for Gideon to proceed.

He stared the group down for a few more moments, his angular features lit by the sunlight. He then cleared his throat and said, “Good day.” He eyed Dawn once more. “You.” He gripped her upper arm. “Come with me.”

Gideon pulled her outside the studio, clicking the door shut behind them. Dawn stumbled after him into the hallway, her arm aching from his hold. She yanked away and rubbed the sore spot.

“I beg your pardon. What is wrong with you?” she asked.

“I’m in the right mind to ask you the same question.”

Dawn folded her arms, lifting her chin a notch. “Oh?”

His lips flicked up to the side before they returned to their pursed position. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you? Determined to infiltrate my entire life for your purposes. First, with my uncle, then here with the theater. What are you doing here?”

“I have no idea what you mean. What with your uncle? You mean our nonexistent engagement?”

Both of their questions hung unanswered in the air.

They stared each other down, but she refused to answer first. The last thing she needed was to feel inferior to another man.

Gideon heaved out a breath, running a hand over his face. “I meant that I know who you are. You’re Dawn Hildegard. You lied to me about being a servant. Probably so you could escape under my nose and not face me regarding your plan to steal my uncle’s fortune.”

Dawn blurted out a laugh. Tears sprung to her eyes and she covered her mouth. The large outburst was quite unladylike, but she didn’t care. He already didn’t think of her as a lady.

“First of all, I didn’t lie about being the help. You assumed. And second, I want nothing to do with your uncle. He’s disgusting and rancid and a foul human being.”

Surprise lit Gideon’s eyes, and his mouth opened some. “You do realize you are talking about my family.”

Dawn kept her chin lifted.

After a moment, he said, “You’re not wrong.” His mouth twisted. “The old man is a beast, and half the time I can hardly carry on with him.”

“Well, that we can agree on.”

“Doesn’t mean that I trust you. You can hate the old man and still want his money.”

Dawn sighed, releasing her anger. She was tired of being mad. “You don’t know me. If you did, then you’d help me get out of this engagement.”

He eyed her suspiciously but didn’t comment. Instead, he said, “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

She tilted her head, not sure if it was a demand or not. “My job,” she said. “I’m doing my job.”

“Which is?”

“Oh, so now you want to know what I do instead of assuming I’m the help?” Her anger rose again. “You don’t need to know any more about me. Only that I want nothing to do with your uncle or you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere I need to be.”

“And where is that?” He raised a thick, dark brow.

“I’m off to find another old man I can swindle money out of,” she said and left.

A shudder went through Dawn as she exited the building. Heat pounded beneath her skin, and the cool air around her did nothing to stop the flush in her cheeks. She placed her hands over her face, waiting for the heat to subside.

Gideon had taken her by surprise. He’d flustered her when she was never flustered. No man made her feel inferior. She was used to men looking down on her, but she never let it affect her. Yet something about Gideon set her nerves on edge.

His distinct façade made him appear as if he would be good company, but he was abrasive and dark. She hardly disliked anyone outright, but he was number two on her list, right behind his uncle.

Shaking her head, she brushed off her skirt and made the trek to Dr. Miller’s office. She really should have gone home to see if Mrs. Cook needed anything from town before heading to the clinic, but the thought of facing her mother kept her feet moving in the opposite direction. Her mother was furious that she’d walked out on Arthur Hemsworth the day before—she had given her a lecture the minute she returned home that evening—but Dawn had marched upstairs and slammed her door, refusing to talk.

Stepping out of the theater’s courtyard, she headed down the street, where leaves were scattered on the ground, the smell of refuse stinking in the gutters. Cars rumbled down the street—a luxury not all could afford. Dawn still rented a horse-drawn carriage when she needed transportation—though they were starting to become nonexistent. Gentlemen tipped their caps as she walked by. She kept her gloved hands linked in front of her, trying not to make eye contact. Even though it was the middle of the day, she knew better than to smile or give any man an indication that she might be interested in them. Women were taken advantage of in this town.

She turned another corner, heading past the local pub, when shouting erupted from inside. The door to the pub flew open and her father staggered out. His salt-and-pepper hair stuck out in all directions, and his clothes were rumpled. Another man followed him, waving his hands in the air and shouting. Her father ran back at the man, trying to ram into him from the front, but the man shoved him back, and her father toppled onto his backside.

“Father!” Dawn rushed forward, bending down next to him. She quickly checked his body for injuries, but there was only a nasty scrape on his cheek. She gently touched the side of his face, and he whacked her arm back.

“Don’t fuss over me, child. I’m fine.” His speech was slurred, and the smell of whiskey stung Dawn’s nose. He tried to sit up, but Dawn pushed him back down.

“No, you’re not. Let me look at this wound.” Bits of dirt and stones were stuck to his bloody face. “You need to let me clean this up.”

He pushed her away again. “I’m fine. I don’t need any of your silly doctor stuff. You’re already an embarrassment as it is.”

Dawn jerked back, clamping her jaws together.

Her father scrambled to his feet and tipped sideways. Dawn gripped his arm, holding him upright.

“Let me help you home,” she said.

This time, he didn’t push her away. He mumbled something incoherent and Dawn pulled him along the sidewalk. They walked down the street, Dawn keeping a firm grip on her father, his footsteps meandering from side to side.

“You shouldn’t be drinking,” she said. “The prohibition is in effect. Alcohol should only be used for medicinal purposes.” Though she believed it should’ve been avoided at all costs.

“It is medicccinal,” he slurred. “You know my leg has hurt ever since the war.”

The war.

She knew his leg only hurt in his mind, not physically. He blamed everything on the war.

“You’re in trouble,” he continued. “You’ve really done it this time, walking out on that suitor of yours.”

“Arthur Hemsworth is not my suitor.”

“To your mother he is. Already has your wedding dress picked out, she doesss.” His words slurred again.

“She wouldn’t be trying to marry me off if you hadn’t lost all our savings. And what was that about back there? You owe that man money?”

Her father frowned, mumbling something incoherent again.

Her hand tightened on his arm. “You can’t keep this up. Drinking is bad for the liver. It’s going to kill you.”

“Like how you killed your brother?” He spat, tipping sideways again.

Dawn paused and the world skidded to a halt.

“Excuse me?” Her heart galloped in her chest, constricting tightly. “You know it’s not my fault.”

“Tell that to your mother.” His eyelids drooped. “She loved him. She wishes it had been you.”

Dawn inhaled sharply. Her lips went numb and she could hardly speak. “Well, it wasn’t,” she choked out. “And no one loved Joseph more than I did.”

Her father started forward once more, and Dawn rushed to catch up to him.

“I know you don’t mean these words, Papa. It’s because you’re drunk. I know you don’t truly blame me for Joseph’s death. Mother, I can believe . . . but . . .”

“Go along, child,” he said. “Go off and play your games while you can. You’ll be married soon enough, and it’ll put all of this nonsense to an end.”

Dawn paused on the small walkway as her father continued on.

He could see himself home.

“I’m sorry I’m late!”

Dawn rushed into the clinic and removed her coat and gloves. She retrieved an apron that was hanging next to the door and wrapped it around her body. Brushing the loose strands of dark hair off her face, she focused in on the scene before her.

A boy sat on the operating table, his hair wild, like he had been rolling in the dirt. A woman who had to be his mother stood by his side, her hand on his bony back. Dr. Miller’s mouth was tucked in to the side.

“This is Amos Johanson,” Dr. Miller said. “We’ll be performing his tonsillectomy today.”

Dawn swallowed, her pulse thrumming. She moved over to the workbench where the tools and knives lay.

“I already disinfected them,” Dr. Miller said.

She nodded, spinning back to the scene. “Shall we get to it then?”

The mother’s hand tightened on her son’s back. “Are you sure that it’s safe?”

“It’s a common procedure,” Dawn said without waiting for Dr. Miller to speak. “It won’t take more than thirty seconds per side.”

The woman raised her brows at Dr. Miller. “Dawn is my assistant. She’ll be helping today. It seems as if she’s a little enthusiastic.”

Heat warmed Dawn’s cheeks, and she peeked over at Mrs. Johanson. She waited for the woman to object to her helping, but she didn’t.

“Dawn, if you’ll explain the procedure to Mrs. Johanson.”

Silence fell, and Dawn twisted her fingers in front of her, before stretching them out straight. She cleared her throat. “We’ll start by applying a few drops of ether onto a sponge to administer the anesthetic. Once Amos is relaxed, we’ll remove each tonsil. It’ll be quick and easy. I promise.”

Mrs. Johanson nodded, but her chin quivered.

Dawn blew out a loud breath. “Let’s get started then.” She headed over to the basin to disinfect her hands, using a bar of lye soap to wash them. She snatched a pair of rubber gloves and snapped them on.

Dr. Miller motioned her forward, and Dawn brought the tray of instruments over to the patient, setting them on a small wooden table adjacent to the bed. Dr. Miller poured the ether onto the sponge and administered the anesthetic, and soon, little Amos was relaxed, mouth parted slightly. His mother hovered off to the side, her hands clasped over her mouth.

Dr. Miller took a tongue depressor, peered inside Amos’s mouth, and grunted. He grabbed the forceps and they disappeared inside the young boy’s mouth. He motioned for Dawn to hand him the blade. Even though it was only a few seconds, it felt like an eternity before Dr. Miller emerged with one red tonsil. Blood trickled out of the boy’s mouth, running down his chin. Dr. Miller plopped the swollen tonsil into a dish before handing the forceps to Dawn.

“Why don’t you try the other one?” Dr. Miller asked.

Dawn froze, staring at the tool before her. “Me?”

“Take it before I change my mind.”

Dawn tentatively lifted her hand and took the sharp tool from Dr. Miller’s hands. She placed it neatly on the tray before grabbing the forceps. She held steady, staring down at her patient. This was everything she’d dreamed about. Standing above a patient, ready to cut into human flesh and remove the disease from a body. She was a healer. It was what she did. Though her legs began to tremble, shaking, as if the earth were opening up beneath her. The young boy reminded her of Joseph, and suddenly it was all she could see. Joseph’s frail body in front of her, cold and still, his eyes open and glazed. The air no longer pushing in and out of his lungs . . .

Dawn shook the thoughts away and gripped the forceps tighter, forcing herself to focus.

It was just her and the patient. Joseph wasn’t here. She zoomed in on young Amos’s face. Nothing else existed. Her mind focused until all she could see was the red infection, a swollen tonsil in the back of the boy’s throat. She dipped inside and grabbed the remaining spongy red organ with the forceps and pulled it toward her. Taking the knife, she made a few small cuts, separating the tissue. She plopped the small chunk of flesh into the basin with a wet splat, bright red blood spilling outward.

The world rushed back, and Dawn focused on Mrs. Johanson’s relieved face.

Dr. Miller crossed his arms, his mouth curving upward. “Well done.”

“His throat will hurt,” Dawn said, the adrenaline from the procedure slowly fading. “But for no more than a week or so. He’ll be good as new soon.”

Mrs. Johanson wiped her eyes. “Thank you.”

She said it to Dawn, not Dr. Miller, and for the first time, something new bloomed inside her chest.

Appreciation.