The soft rustling of fabric and the creaking of the floorboards stirred me from slumber. The early morning light filtered through the cracks in the curtains, casting golden streaks across my chamber. A faint scent of vender lingered in the air, a reminder of the sachets tucked beneath my pillows.

  “Miss,” a familiar voice murmured, ced with the thick accent of her native France. “It is time to rise.”

  Josephine moved deftly about the room, folding a shawl over the arm of a nearby chair. Blinking sleep from my eyes, I stretched my limbs before sitting upright. I caught sight of Josephine’s reflection in the dressing table mirror—her dark hair pinned neatly beneath her cap, her movements efficient yet graceful. With a yawn, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug. Josephine was already at my wardrobe, retrieving the garments for the day.

  “The carriage will be ready within the hour,” she reminded me, holding up the crisp bck blouse and matching skirt.

  I nodded, rubbing the sleep from my face before allowing Josephine to assist me in changing. I shed my nightdress and stepped into the fresh linens id out for me, feeling the cool fabric against my skin. The bck blouse buttoned neatly up the front, modest yet fashionable, while the skirt fred slightly over the corded petticoat and the stiffly starched underyers. Josephine smoothed out the fabric before presenting the final piece—my white apron, the bib of which she carefully pinned to my blouse. The ensemble was simple, practical, and suited for the day ahead.

  “Merci, Josephine,” I murmured as I settled into the dressing chair.

  She nodded, stepping behind me to brush through the waves of my red hair. Though society often had its opinions on the striking shade, I had long since stopped caring. Josephine wound it into a neat bun, securing it in a simple coil at the nape of my neck. She carefully pced a simple white head covering over my hair and pinned it securely in pce.

  “You have a long day ahead, mademoiselle,” Josephine remarked as she tidied the bed. “You must eat.”

  I smiled wryly. “I assure you, I have no intentions of starving myself.”

  She only nodded in approval before retreating to the wardrobe once more.

  Once dressed, I made my way downstairs to the dining room, where my breakfast awaited on the long mahogany table. A modest meal—just as I preferred. The golden yolk of my eggs gleamed under the soft morning light, the toast beside it perfectly crisp. I took a sip of tea, savoring the warmth that spread through my chest.

  I ate my breakfast in quiet contemption, listening to the distant sounds of the household stirring to life around me, the clinking of dishes, and muffled footsteps in the hall. Soon, I would be making my way through the countryside and into London. The anticipation curled in my stomach like a secret, a promise of something just out of reach. The day had begun, and so had whatever awaited me beyond these walls.

  Setting down my teacup, I exhaled softly before rising from my chair. Josephine was already waiting with my cloak, a sturdy woolen garment that would shield me from the lingering morning chill. She draped it over my shoulders and fastened the csp at my throat with practiced efficiency. "There, mademoiselle," she said, stepping back to assess me. "You are ready."

  I nodded, smoothing the folds of my skirt before making my way to the front hall. Mr. Lockhart stood by the door, his expression as stoic as ever. "Your carriage is waiting, Miss Geldart," he said as he opened the door.

  "Thank you, Mr. Lockhart," I replied, stepping outside into the crisp morning air. The sky was pale with the promise of a bright day, though a faint mist still clung to the dirt drive. The carriage stood ready, its dark frame gleaming in the muted light. The driver tipped his hat as the footman opened the door, and I gathered my skirts before climbing inside.

  As the carriage lurched forward, I settled into the seat, my hands folded in my p. The familiar rocking motion soon became rhythmic, the sound of hooves against the road a steady accompaniment to my thoughts. The journey would take an hour and a half, giving me ample time to watch the changing ndscape from the window.

  At first, we passed through quiet countryside, where fields stretched endlessly. Gradually, the scenery shifted, houses appearing with increasing frequency, and the roads becoming livelier. By the time we entered the heart of London, the streets were already bustling with vendors calling their wares, carriages navigating the crowded roads, and pedestrians hurrying along the walkways. I peered out as we crossed over the River Thames, the water below shimmering in the morning sun. Boats drifted zily along the current, and beyond them, the grand buildings of the city loomed, a mixture of old and new architecture standing proudly against the sky.

  At st, the carriage turned onto a wide avenue, drawing to a stop in front of the grand stone edifice of King’s College Hospital. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of anticipation through me. Taking a deep breath, I waited for the footman to open the door before stepping out onto the pavement. This was it—my journey had brought me here, to the very pce where my future would begin. I took a moment to steady myself—the grand facade of King’s loomed before me, its imposing structure both intimidating and awe-inspiring. The symmetrical rows of windows reflected the sky above, and the arched walkways along the ground floor gave it an air of stately elegance. For a long moment, I simply stood there, my breath caught in my throat. The engraving I had seen had not done justice to the sheer scale of the pce.

  A movement to my left pulled me from my reverie. Students and faculty bustled about the entrance, their dark coats and gowns fluttering as they hurried to their respective destinations. I adjusted my cloak, straightened my apron, and made my way toward the main entrance. Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of ink, polished wood, and the faintest trace of coal smoke. The corridors stretched wide, lined with heavy wooden doors, some slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of study rooms and lecture halls beyond. Though I had never been here before, I walked with purpose, seeking someone who might assist me.

  At st, I spotted a woman in a dark dress with a crisp white veil, her presence exuding authority. “Excuse me,” I said, offering a polite nod. “Could you direct me to the matron’s office?”

  She gave me a once-over before nodding down the hall. “Third door on the left, miss.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, hurrying in the indicated direction. My boots made soft echoes against the polished floor as I reached the door marked ‘Matron’s Office’ and knocked firmly.

  “Enter,” came a clipped voice from within.

  I stepped inside to find a severe-looking woman seated behind a rge desk, her hands neatly folded over a ledger. Her eyes swept over me with a calcuting air before she spoke. “You must be Miss Geldart.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She nodded briskly and gestured for me to step closer. “You are to use the servants’ entrance in the future. I will not have new staff parading through the front doors.”

  Heat crept up my neck, but I dipped my head in understanding. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The matron suddenly paused, gncing at her ledger once more before clicking her tongue. “It seems you have weekends off.” She sneered slightly, as though the very notion was offensive. “See that you make good use of your time, Miss Geldart.” She snapped the ledger shut and gave me a pointed look. “Your pay will be six shillings and nine pence each week. Do not expect any advances. You will be addressed as ‘Sister’ if you survive a fortnight here.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I murmured, unsure whether to feel relieved or wary.

  “Good. You will be working in the women’s influenza ward. You will begin immediately.” She stood, adjusting the starched folds of her apron. “Follow me.”

  I obeyed without question, trailing her through the hallways as she spoke over her shoulder. “Your duties are as follows: a daily sweep and mop of the floors, dusting the patients’ furniture and window sills, ensuring the temperature is maintained at a comfortable level, taking notes on any significant changes in their conditions, and making sure each patient has fresh candles before you leave. Cleanliness and order are of the utmost importance.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  We arrived at a heavy wooden door, which she pushed open, revealing a long room lined with neat rows of beds. The air was thick with the scent of vinegar and used candles, a sharp contrast to the warming air of the outside world. Women of various ages y beneath heavy bnkets, some resting fitfully, others sitting up to sip from steaming mugs of broth. The sounds of coughs, sneezes, and sniffles filled the space.

  The matron turned to face me fully. “You will report to Sister Sedgewick. She will oversee your work.”

  As the matron left with a final, scrutinizing gnce, I turned my attention to the woman standing before me. Sister Sedgewick was a few inches shorter than me, her frame modest and unassuming. Her brunette hair was neatly tucked beneath her cap, and her warm brown eyes held a kindness that instantly put me at ease. "You must be Miss Geldart," she said, her voice smooth and composed. "I am Sister Phillipa Sedgewick."

  I inclined my head respectfully. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Sister Sedgewick."

  She gave a small nod and gestured toward the nurse's desk. "Come, put your cloak away. We keep them in the side wardrobe behind the desk to avoid unnecessary clutter in the ward."

  Unfastening my cloak, I moved toward the wardrobe as instructed, carefully folding the thick wool before pcing it inside. As I did, Sister Sedgewick continued speaking. "We document all patient observations in the record book here," she expined, resting her fingertips on the open book atop the desk. "Every hour, we record heart rate and temperature, noting any fluctuations. We also write down any visible changes—a patient’s pallor, bored breathing, signs of distress, or worsening symptoms. Even a slight difference in their appetite or responsiveness could be significant. Accuracy and consistency are paramount."

  Stepping beside her, I gnced down at the book’s neatly inscribed entries. The pages were filled with precise, structured notations—columns dedicated to vitals, symptoms, and treatment adjustments. Some ink was fresh, still drying in delicate strokes, while older entries had settled into the page like a permanent record of vigince. Sister Sedgewick turned to me with an encouraging expression. "You’ll get used to the routine soon enough. Come, let me show you how we take the readings."

  I nodded and followed her, already feeling the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders. Sister Sedgewick wasted no time in showing me how things were done. She led me to the first patient, a frail woman whose skin was pale beneath the light streaming in from the window above her. “First, the pulse,” Phillipa instructed, taking the woman’s hand gently and pressing two fingers on the inside of her delicate wrist. “Count the beats for a full minute, or if able, for thirty seconds and multiply by two.”

  I watched closely, noting how steady and confident she was in her movements. After a moment, she handed me the patient’s hand. I mirrored her, pressing down lightly until I felt the faint but steady rhythm beneath my fingertips.

  “Thirty-four,” I murmured after counting.

  “Sixty-eight beats per minute, then,” Phillipa confirmed with a small nod of approval before moving on to demonstrate how to take temperature. She pressed the back of her hand against the patient’s forehead, then to her cheek and neck. I watched as her brow furrowed slightly in concentration.

  "Feverish," she murmured. "But not as high as it was this morning. You’ll learn to tell just by touch—hot and dry, or hot and damp, can tell us different things. If her skin is cool and cmmy, that’s another sign to watch for."

  I nodded, committing her words to memory. The idea of diagnosing a fever by touch alone was daunting, but I supposed with time, I’d come to recognize the subtle differences the way she did.

  From there, the day fell into a rhythm, though I barely had a moment to think. Cleaning and dusting were my first tasks. I moved quickly through the ward, sweeping the floors in long strokes, gathering dust that had settled beneath the beds. The scent of vinegar and soap filled the air as I wiped down bedside tables and window sills, my arms aching from the repeated motion.

  Next came the beds. Fresh sheets were stacked neatly at the end of the ward, and I helped change out the linens for the empty cots, readying them for new patients. I smoothed out the fabric, tucking the corners in as tightly as I could, though it was clear I cked the efficiency of the more experienced nurses.

  “The undry is down the hall,” Phillipa instructed when the used linens had been gathered into a rge basket. I hoisted it into my arms, the weight of it pressing against my torso as I carefully navigated through the corridors. The undresses barely looked up as I entered, nodding in silent acknowledgment before taking the soiled linens from me. I exhaled softly, rubbing my hands together before hurrying back to the ward.

  By mid-afternoon, Phillipa encouraged me to try my hand at recording patient information. I stood at the nurse's desk, pen in hand, staring down at the open book. The ink bottle gleamed beside me, and I hesitated before dipping the nib, careful not to let it drip. I searched the columns for the patient’s name, inscribing the time and their test vitals as well as how they looked and were doing. My handwriting was neat, though I wrote slowly, wary of making a mistake. I could feel Phillipa watching over my shoulder.

  "Good," she murmured after I had finished. "You'll get faster with practice."

  The hours passed in a blur of movement and quiet concentration. Before the evening rounds, I took one final task upon myself—checking each bed to ensure every patient had sufficient candles for the night. The flickering fmes cast soft, wavering shadows across their faces as I moved from bed to bed, repcing worn-down stubs with fresh wax. By the time the clock struck eight, my body ached with exhaustion, but I felt a quiet satisfaction at having made it through my first day. Phillipa and I walked side by side down the corridor, my apron slightly rumpled, my fingers still bearing traces of ink, my cloak swaying as we walked.

  Then, from the corner of my eye, I caught the fsh of red hair disappearing around a distant hallway. I froze mid-step, my breath catching in my throat. It was brief—just a glimpse—but something about it made my face warm. Could it have been a trick of the candlelight? A nurse I had yet to meet? I stared down the hall, straining to see if the figure would reappear.

  "Miss Geldart?" Phillipa’s voice broke through my thoughts.

  I blinked and turned to face her. She studied me with mild curiosity, her brow raised. "Nothing," I said quickly, shaking my head. "Just thought I saw something."

  Phillipa regarded me for a moment before offering a small, knowing smile. "The hospital can py tricks on you when you're tired. Best not to dwell on shadows."

  I nodded, though the heat still lingered. With one st gnce toward the empty corridor, I followed Phillipa, telling myself it had been nothing at all. She led me toward a side entrance, one I had not yet used, and held the door open for me. The night air was crisp and cool, the sky stretched dark and vast above us, stars scattered faintly across its expanse.

  “This is the door you’ll use from now on,” Phillipa said. “It keeps things orderly.”

  I nodded, my breath curling in the night air. “Thank you, Sister Sedgewick.”

  She gave a small, approving nod. “You did well today, Miss Geldart. The first day is always the hardest.”

  I felt a flicker of pride at her words and dipped my head respectfully. “Goodnight, Sister.”

  “Goodnight, Miss Geldart.”

  Turning away, I stepped toward my waiting carriage, where the footman stood ready to open the door. I gathered my skirts and climbed inside, sinking into the seat with a quiet sigh as the door shut behind me. A moment ter, the carriage lurched forward, beginning the journey home.

  The ride took the same course as it had that morning. At first, the streets of London were still alive with movement—nterns flickering in windows, the sounds of hooves and voices mingling in the cool air. But as we left the city, the noise faded. Houses became sparse, repced by stretches of darkened countryside. I gazed out at the passing ndscape, my mind drifting back to the ward, and the patients. The carriage slowed as we neared home, the familiar silhouette of the house coming into view. Warm light spilled from the front windows, a welcoming contrast to the dark night. As soon as the carriage came to a stop, the door opened, and I stepped down onto the dirt drive.

  The front door swung open before I reached it. Aunt Eliza stood in the doorway, her expression brightening as she took me in. “There you are, my dear,” she said warmly, stepping aside to let me in. “I was beginning to wonder if they’d decided to keep you overnight.”

  I smiled, exhaustion creeping into my bones as Mr. Lockhart removed my cloak. “It certainly felt like they might.”

  She let out a soft ugh, taking my hands briefly in hers. “Come, tell me everything. Dinner is waiting.”

  I followed her into the dining room, where a modest meal had been set. Roast chicken, warm bread, and a simple broth—comforting and familiar. We sat together, and as I ate, I recounted my day, from meeting Sister Sedgewick to learning how to take a patient’s pulse, to carrying the heavy undry down the hall. Aunt Eliza listened intently, nodding in all the right pces, offering words of encouragement where she could.

  “You must be exhausted,” she finally said, as I set my spoon down with a sigh.

  “I am,” I admitted, though I found myself reluctant to go just yet. The warmth of home was so different from the hospital—quieter, softer, untouched by sickness. But my body had other ideas. My limbs ached, my eyelids felt heavy, and soon enough, I excused myself, making my way upstairs.

  Josephine was already waiting in my room, setting out fresh linens and preparing the bath. She helped me out of my uniform, her deft hands unfastening buttons and loosening my corset with practiced ease. “Was it as you expected, mademoiselle?” she asked as I stepped into the warm water.

  I let out a quiet sigh as the heat seeped into my tired muscles. “No,” I admitted. “It was harder. But I think I’ll manage.”

  She nodded, beginning the task of combing through my damp hair once I had dried off. The motions were familiar, soothing, a reminder of home. Soon, I was dressed in my nightgown, tucked beneath the heavy bnkets of my bed.

  Josephine extinguished the mp, and darkness settled around me. My body was exhausted, but my mind still lingered on the hospital, on the quiet hum of the ward at night, the flickering candlelight… and that glimpse of red hair.

  Rather than troubling me, the thought intrigued me. Perhaps tomorrow, I would have an answer. With that st thought, I closed my eyes and let sleep take me.