The resolve that had solidified in the basement's gloom felt terrifyingly fragile in the harsh light of morning. Alistair had barely slept, his mind racing through anatomical diagrams and a web of lies in equal measure. The plan was madness. It was their only hope.
Elara, too, looked like she'd spent the night wrestling with ghosts. Her sleep had been fitful, punctuated by coughs and soft, distressed murmurs. In the grey dawn light filtering under the door, she looked pale and impossibly young, still swallowed by his greatcoat.
"We cannot do this alone," Alistair said, his voice rough from lack of sleep. He was stating the obvious, but the words needed to be said aloud. "The procedure… it requires a third set of hands. To hold instruments, to stanch blood, to…" He trailed off, the realities of what he was about to do to his own sister too visceral to voice.
Elara nodded, her expression grim. "The housekeeper. Mrs. Dobbs." She had pieced together the name from his conversation yesterday.
"Yes. She is kind. She is capable. And she is loyal to Clara." He paused, the next part of the plan feeling like a betrayal of the woman's trust. "But she cannot know who you are. She cannot know the truth."
Elara's intelligent eyes narrowed. "What do you propose? That I hide in the corner while you perform surgery?"
"No," Alistair said, the idea that had been forming in his mind now crystallizing into a full-blown, desperate lie. It was a gamble so audacious it made his hands feel cold. "I will tell her you are… you are with me. That we are… together."
Elara stared at him, her composure cracking for the first time that morning. "Together," she repeated, the word flat with disbelief.
"It is the only story that makes a shred of sense," he insisted, the words coming out in a rushed, low whisper. "Why else would a young woman be hidden in my basement? Why would I trust her with this? Why would she agree to stay? A medical student? A colleague's daughter? Those are stories for strangers, not for a woman who has known me for years. Mrs. Dobbs would see through it in an instant. But this… this she might believe because it is so absurd it must be true. She knows I have never… that I have always been alone with my work. She will be so shocked by the revelation, she might not question the details."
He watched the understanding dawn on Elara's face, followed by a wave of pure apprehension. It was a vile imposition, a necessary cruelty.
"You want to tell her I am your secret," she said slowly, "so she does not look for any others."
"Yes."
She was silent for a long moment, considering the weight of the new role she would have to play. Not just a witness, but an accomplice bound to him by a fictional intimacy. Finally, she gave a single, sharp nod. "Then that is what I will be."
"There is more," he said, the next part feeling even more invasive. "If you are to play this part, you cannot look like you've just been… exhumed."
She was right. The grave dirt was mostly gone from her face, but her hair was still a tangled mess, and she smelled of earth, sweat, and sickness. The borrowed coat was monstrously large. She needed to look human, not haunted.
"There is a small washroom, through there," Alistair said, pointing to a narrow door tucked beside the furnace. "There is a pump, cold water only, I'm afraid. And soap." He hesitated, then added, "Clara… Clara's things are upstairs. She is… she was of a similar size. Before." The words felt like a violation, but what part of this wasn't? "I can ask Mrs. Dobbs for a dress. I will tell her my… my guest… had a mishap with her luggage."
Elara looked at him, a complex emotion in her gaze, gratitude, shame, resolve. "Thank you," she said simply.
He left her to it, climbing the stairs to face the next hurdle. He found Mrs. Dobbs in the kitchen, preparing a thin broth for Clara.
"Mrs. Dobbs," he began, forcing a calmness he did not feel. "I need to speak with you. It is a matter of a… personal nature."
The housekeeper turned, her kind face etched with concern. "Oh, Doctor? Is everything alright?"
Alistair took a steadying breath, the lie feeling like a stone in his throat. "There is a woman downstairs. In my study."
Mrs. Dobbs's eyebrows shot up. "A woman, sir?"
"Her name is Elara," he said, using her real name, the only piece of truth he could afford to give. "And she is… she is very dear to me." He forced himself to meet the housekeeper's astonished gaze. "Our connection has been… private. Recent. She arrived last night unexpectedly. There was an accident. Her things were ruined. I wonder… might Clara spare a simple dress?"
Mrs. Dobbs stood utterly still, the spoon in her hand forgotten. She looked as if he had just announced the sky was green. Her mouth opened, then closed. The Doctor? Their quiet, reclusive, work obsessed Doctor Finch? With a woman hidden in his study?
"A woman," she repeated, dumbfounded. "Dear to you." The concepts refused to connect in her mind.
"It is not what you think," Alistair said, which was the truest thing he'd said all morning. "She is here to help. With Clara. Today. I am performing the procedure today, and I need both of you. But first… the dress?"
The mention of Clara and the procedure seemed to jolt Mrs. Dobbs back to reality. The bewildered shock was replaced by a dawning, flustered sense of duty. "Of course. Yes. Of course, the poor lamb." She bustled off, muttering to herself, "A woman. Good heavens." She returned moments later with a simple, dark wool dress and a clean chemise. "Shall I take them down to her, sir?"
"I… I will take them," Alistair said quickly. "She is rather shy. I will explain. And, Mrs. Dobbs… the procedure is today. This afternoon. I will need your assistance. It is… it is delicate."
The woman's face paled. She had helped him with many things, but surgery was another matter entirely. "Doctor… on Miss Clara? Are you sure?"
"I have never been more sure of anything," he lied. "It is her only chance."
He carried the clothes downstairs, his mind reeling. He knocked softly on the washroom door. "Elara? I have something for you."
The door opened a crack, and a hand, pink and raw from scrubbing, emerged. He passed the bundle through. "Mrs. Dobbs will be down shortly. She knows you are here. She believes you are my… my guest."
He heard a soft intake of breath from behind the door. "Alright."
Twenty minutes later, Elara emerged. The transformation was startling. The dress was a little long, and hung slightly loose on her frame, but it was clean and decent. Her face was scrubbed clean, the pallor of illness now looking more like a natural, delicate complexion. Her damp hair was neatly braided and coiled at the nape of her neck. She looked like a different person. She looked like she could be exactly who he had said she was, a woman dear to him.
She met his gaze, her own nervous but steady. "How do I look?"
"Convincing," he managed to say, his throat tight.
A knock came at the basement door, Mrs. Dobbs's familiar, polite tap, but it sounded hesitant, uncertain.
Alistair took a deep breath and unbolted the door.
Mrs. Dobbs stepped in, her eyes wide with a mixture of caution and intense curiosity. They swept over the room before landing on Elara. Her expression softened from wary suspicion to bewildered astonishment. The girl was beautiful, in a fragile, haunting way. She looked nothing like the brazen hussy she had half imagined.
"Oh," Mrs. Dobbs said, all her pre prepared fluster vanishing into genuine, if confused, kindness. "You must be Elara. I'm Mrs. Dobbs. The Doctor… he told me. Well. My goodness."
Elara offered a small, hesitant smile, infusing it with a warmth that surprised Alistair. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Dobbs. Alistair has spoken so highly of your care for Clara." Her voice was soft, cultured, and carried no trace of the grave. It was the voice of a lady.
The use of his Christian name was a masterstroke. Mrs. Dobbs's eyes widened further. She looked at Alistair, then back at Elara, and something in her seemed to melt. The story was becoming real.
"Well," Mrs. Dobbs said, blinking rapidly. "We must get you properly settled, dear. But the Doctor says there's work to be done first."
"Yes," Elara said, her smile fading into a look of grave determination. "For Clara."
That settled it. Any remaining doubt in Mrs. Dobbs's mind was erased by the girl's clear concern for her charge. The why and how of it all could be pondered later. Now, there was a miracle to attempt.
The next few hours were a blur of frantic, controlled preparation. Under Alistair's direction, they scrubbed the second stone table until it gleamed. They sterilized the surgical tools in boiling water. They laid out clean linen bandages, basins of water, and bottles of antiseptic. Mrs. Dobbs worked with a quiet, capable efficiency, her fear masked by a steadfast determination to help Clara, though she shot the occasional, utterly baffled look at the unlikely couple working beside her.
Elara followed his instructions precisely, her movements quick and intelligent. She asked pertinent questions, her performance as his invested partner flawless. He watched her, this woman who had been lying in a coffin days before, now calmly preparing for a surgery that would decide another woman's fate. Her strength was astonishing.
Finally, everything was ready. The basement looked as much like an operating theater as it ever could. The tools were laid out. The lamps were lit and adjusted for maximum light.
The three of them stood around the empty table, the air thick with anticipation and dread.
"It is time," Alistair said, his voice barely a whisper. "I will bring her down."
He looked at Elara. Her face was pale but set, her hands clenched at her sides. She gave him a single, almost imperceptible nod.
He looked at Mrs. Dobbs, her face a mask of prayerful hope.
He had his team. He had his lies. He had his tools.
There was nothing left to do but fetch his sister and begin.