The steady rhythm of the carriage wheels against the cobbled streets matched the cadence of my thoughts as I gazed out at the passing scenery. It's Friday, the st day of my first week. A thin morning mist clung to the city, softening the harsh lines of buildings and casting an ethereal glow over the streets. Despite the quiet beauty of London at dawn, my mind remained fixated on the unrelenting stream of patients at King’s. I let out a slow breath, csping my hands in my p. This week had been an endless cycle of admissions and treatments. Some patients had been fortunate enough to recover and leave, their beds stripped and cleaned for the next unfortunate soul. The hospital never emptied; its wards devoured the sick and suffering as quickly as they were relinquished.

  Had I done enough? Had I made a difference? I had done what I could—followed instructions, learned quickly, steadied trembling hands, and spoken softly to those in pain. Yet, I could not shake the feeling that it was never enough. Medicine could do more now than it ever had before, but even still, it felt inadequate in the face of such an overwhelming need.

  I turned my gaze to the world beyond the carriage window. How many of these people—hurrying to their shops, their workhouses, their homes—had ever known the inside of a hospital? How many had been spared suffering because of advancements that had come at a terrible cost? My lips pressed together. I had heard the stories. Everyone had. The resurrection men—the body snatchers—had been a necessary evil, supplying surgeons with the means to understand the body, learn, and improve. Without them, without the stolen dead, where would medicine be now?

  A shudder ran through me at the thought. The price of progress had been high, paid in the desecration of the nameless, the wrongdoers, the poor. And yet, had it not been for them, the patients lying in King’s—the women coughing blood into their handkerchiefs, the feverish children, the men with their broken limbs—might have had no hope at all. The carriage jostled as it crossed a particurly rough patch of road, jolting me from my thoughts. I took a deep breath, rolling my shoulders. Focusing on the past would not change what had already happened. I could only focus on the present, on the patients still waiting for care, for comfort, for a cure.

  The faint scent of coal smoke drifted through the air as we neared the hospital, mingling with the ever-present dampness of the Thames. I adjusted my apron and straightened my spine. Another day awaited me, another chance to prove myself—to do good, however small that good might be.

  As the carriage slowed to a stop before King’s, I stepped out onto the pavement, ready to face whatever the day would bring. I gnced at the clock near the entrance and realized I had arrived twenty minutes early. The thought of stepping into the ward now felt too soon, so I took the opportunity to explore. The grand halls of King’s stretched before me, echoing with the sounds of hurried footsteps and muffled voices. I let my curiosity guide me, wandering past the patient wards and into a quieter part of the hospital—the administration wing.

  The corridors here were different. The air was lighter, the scent of ink and parchment repcing the bitter smells of the medical halls. Ornate-paneled doors lined the hallway, each leading to an office filled with bookshelves and heavy wooden desks. As I turned a corner, movement caught my eye. There it was again—the unmistakable fsh of red hair.

  My breath hitched as I saw him properly for the first time. He stood tall, broad-shouldered, his auburn hair slicked back neatly. The sunlight streaming through the window cast a golden hue over his light brown eyes, making them seem almost luminous. His suit was immacute, each line perfectly tailored, every button polished. He was deep in conversation with another well-dressed man, his expression focused, his posture composed.

  I knew staring was improper, but I couldn't help myself. Something was striking about him—an air of quiet confidence, a presence that seemed at home in these halls of authority. I willed myself to look away, to turn and continue on my way, but before I could, his gaze shifted.

  Our eyes met.

  A wave of warmth washed over my cheeks, and I quickly looked away. My heart began to race. as I turned on my heel and walked briskly back toward my ward, willing myself not to look back. I could still feel the weight of his eyes on me, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

  I barely slowed my pace until I reached the familiar entrance of the women’s ward. Pressing a hand to my chest, I took a steadying breath before stepping inside. Whatever—or whoever—I had just encountered would have to wait.

  I set to work as soon as the morning routine began, my hands moving with practiced efficiency. The familiar swish of the broom against the wooden floors was almost meditative, the soft scrape and shuffle a rhythm I had come to associate with the quiet hours before the true chaos of the day began. Dust stirred in the golden light filtering through the high windows, and I made quick work of sweeping it up before fetching the scrubbing brush and pail. The scent of lye soap filled the air as I worked, the wooden floorboards darkening under the wet strokes.

  I moved from one end of the ward to the other, careful not to disturb the patients who were still resting. The early morning light cast long shadows across their faces, some peaceful in slumber, others restless from pain or fever. The air was thick with the mingling scents of medicinal herbs, faint traces of sweat, and the ever-present dampness of freshly undered sheets. It was a quiet moment, the kind I had learned to savor before the day picked up pace.

  A soft voice interrupted my thoughts. "Miss… could you help me?"

  I turned to see one of the patients, Mrs. Finnigan, a frail woman with wisps of gray hair escaping from her nightcap. She y propped up by pillows, her thin fingers trembling as she reached toward the bedside table where a gss of water sat just out of reach.

  "Of course," I said gently, stepping closer. I picked up the gss and held it to her lips, tilting it carefully so she could sip without spilling. Her eyes met mine briefly, filled with gratitude.

  "Thank you, dear," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

  I offered a reassuring smile, setting the gss back down within her reach. "Let me know if you need anything else."

  She nodded faintly, already sinking back into her pillows. I watched her for a moment, ensuring she was comfortable, before returning to my tasks.

  By the time Phillipa and I had finished recording the morning vitals, my apron was already speckled with dust and water stains. The work was endless, but it gave me purpose. We moved on to folding the freshly washed linens, the crisp scent of soap clinging to the fabric as we worked in quiet tandem.

  As I smoothed out a sheet, I hesitated before speaking. “Sister Sedgewick, do you happen to know the man with red hair who works in the administration wing?”

  She gnced at me, eyebrows raised. “Red hair?”

  “Yes,” I said, a little too quickly. “Tall, broad-shouldered. He wears his hair neatly slicked back. His suit is immacute, and his—” I stopped myself, suddenly aware of how dreamily I had been describing him. My cheeks warmed. “I just happened to see him today.”

  Phillipa pressed her lips together, as if trying to recall, then gave a small nod. “Ah, you must mean Benedict. He works as an almoner for the hospital.” She continued, neatly folding a pillowcase. “He’s quite friendly. Doesn’t like being called by his st name, though.”

  I gave her a quizzical look. “Why not?”

  “No idea. Just prefers it, I suppose.” She gave me a knowing look, the corners of her mouth twitching. “A few of the nurses have a small crush on him, you know. Not that they’d ever go up and speak to him. Too shy, most of them.”

  I focused intently on the linens in my hands, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle. “That’s interesting,” I murmured, willing my voice to remain casual.

  Phillipa chuckled softly, and I dared not meet her gaze. My heart had quickened just thinking of the way Benedict had looked at me that day. Perhaps the other nurses were shy, but I—I wasn’t quite sure what I was yet.

  The te afternoon sun snted through the tall windows of the ward, casting golden light over the beds as Phillipa and I worked side by side, changing the linens. The task had become second nature by now—strip the soiled sheets, smooth out the fresh ones, tuck the edges neatly. There was something almost soothing in the repetitive motions, though the exhaustion from the day settled heavily in my limbs. Mrs. Finnigan had dozed off after her water, her frail chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. I had grown used to the small comfort of her presence, to the quiet exchanges we had shared in the past few days. She had been difficult at first, but I had come to understand her stubbornness was her way of holding on to what little dignity remained to her.

  “We’re nearly done,” Phillipa murmured, folding a pillowcase with practiced efficiency. “Will you take this set to the undry?”

  I nodded, gathering the bundle of soiled linens in my arms. “I won’t be long.”

  The corridors were cooler than the ward, and I relished the brief respite from the thick, medicinal air. The scent of soap and damp cloth grew stronger as I neared the undry, where steam curled up from the basins, and the rhythmic slosh of water and scrape of scrubbing brushes filled the air. I set the linens down and turned to leave, already thinking of what remained to be done before the evening rounds.

  As I re-entered the ward, something was different. There was a hush—an unnatural stillness that settled over the space like a weighted bnket. My gaze flickered instinctively to Mrs. Finnigan’s bed. Phillipa was near the foot of the bed, her face drawn. The truth settled in my chest before anyone spoke. “She’s gone,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

  I moved closer as if proximity could alter the reality before me. Mrs. Finnigan y perfectly still, her hands resting lightly over her stomach, her features serene in a way they never had been in life. I had just been with her. Just handed her that gss of water. And now— My throat tightened, a dull ache settling in my chest. I had seen sickness, suffering, and pain, but this was the first time I had lost someone in my care. My first patient to die. The realization pressed heavily on me, an invisible weight I wasn’t sure I knew how to carry.

  I swallowed past the lump in my throat and reached out, smoothing the edge of her bnket with trembling fingers. “She didn’t die alone,” I murmured, more to myself than to anyone else. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

  Phillipa gave me a long, measured look before nodding. “No, she didn’t.”

  We stood in silence for a moment longer before the world moved on, as it always did. The morticians arrived within the half hour, their presence a quiet but tangible weight in the ward. They moved with practiced efficiency, their expressions impassive as they prepared to take Mrs. Finnigan away. I stood by, hands csped tightly before me, offering what little assistance they required. There was paperwork, of course—there always was. I signed where I needed to, my pen steady despite the hollowness in my chest. The morticians murmured their thanks before carrying her away, leaving behind only an empty bed.

  Phillipa pced a gentle hand on my arm. “Come,” she said. “Let’s finish.”

  I nodded, forcing myself back into motion. Together, we stripped the bed, folding the linens with quiet precision. The mattress, once warmed by Mrs. Finnigan’s frail body, now felt cold beneath my fingers. We repced the sheets with fresh ones, smoothing out each wrinkle, restoring order where loss had left disruption. The work was methodical, and I let myself sink into it, grateful for the distraction.

  The ward moved on as it always did, absorbing another loss as though it had never been. But I felt it—an absence, a weight, a silence where once there had been whispered words and tired smiles. I swallowed against the lump in my throat and turned away before it could rise any further. Phillipa walked beside me as we stepped into the hallway, the noise of the ward fading into the background. The corridor was quiet, lit only by the dim glow of the afternoon light filtering through the high windows.

  Phillipa stopped, turning to face me fully. “Lilibet.”

  I hesitated, my hands tightening into fists at my sides. “I’m fine, Pippa.”

  She didn’t argue, didn’t press. Instead, she reached for my hand, her fingers warm and steady. “You don’t have to be.”

  The simple words unraveled something in me. My breath hitched, and the tears I had been holding back all day welled hot and fast. I turned my face away, but it was no use—Phillipa saw, as she always did. She squeezed my hand, drawing me into a quiet embrace. “It’s all right,” she murmured. “Let it out.”

  The dam broke. A sob tore free, and I clung to her, my fingers twisting into the fabric of her apron. Grief, exhaustion, frustration—all of it poured out in silent, shuddering waves. I had held myself together through the routine, through the duties and the expectations, but here, in the dim solitude of the hallway, I let myself grieve.

  “Oh, my dear,” Phillipa murmured gently. Her voice was softer now, filled with the patience of someone who had witnessed too many losses to count. “You can’t save everyone. Some people simply aren’t strong enough. When it’s their time, it’s their time.”

  I exhaled sharply, the weight in my chest pressing harder. “But what if—” I stopped, biting down on the words. What if I had sat with her longer?

  What if I had held her hand? What if I had done more?

  Phillipa sighed, her hands rubbing slow circles on my back like a mother comforting a child. “You were there,” she said gently. “You made sure she wasn’t alone. That’s more than most get, love. She brushed a loose strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear in a way that made my chest ache with longing for something I couldn’t name. “You’ll have to learn to carry this, Elizabeth,” she said, her voice thick with understanding. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

  Her words settled deep, threading through the sorrow that curled in my stomach. She was right. The grief wouldn’t vanish, but I could choose how I bore it. I straightened, inhaling deeply. The halls of King’s were still filled with the sick and suffering, people who needed care, who needed kindness. Mrs. Finnigan was gone, but there were others—others who still needed someone to remind them they mattered. That they were not just bodies filling beds until the inevitable came.

  I wouldn’t let them feel forgotten. I wouldn’t let them slip away in silence.

  When I met Phillipa’s gaze again, there was something steadier in my own. “Then I’ll make sure every patient who stays in that ward knows they’re not alone. That someone cares about them, that they are loved.”

  A flicker of approval crossed her face before she cupped my cheek briefly, then let her hand fall away. “That’s my girl.”

  Without another word, I turned back toward the ward, the scent of lye and linen still lingering in the air. There was work to be done.