The Web Weaver Read Online Free Page B

children, and the proof—a small pale girl with the same chestnut hair—waited beyond the screen.
    On her left side was a fist-sized bruise, its bluish-purple contrasting with her fair skin. I drew in my breath. Behind me Violet muttered, “Dear God.” The woman’s face grew even paler.
    I tried to probe gently, but soon tears streaked her cheeks. However, she made no sound. Half naked, she seemed so weak and vulnerable that it was hard to understand how any man could have hurt her so.
    “I’m afraid you have some broken ribs, my dear.” I taped them up carefully and told her to come back to see me in two weeks time.
    While she finished dressing, I turned to Violet. She had gone to the window, and now stood with her back to me, staring out at the street below. The pale nape of her neck showed under the long black hair that had been carefully wound about and pinned up.
    “How are you?”
    She said nothing.
    “Violet?” I put my hand on her arm and felt, briefly, her muscles trembling violently, but then she slipped away and turned to face me. Her brown eyes had an odd glint—fear or rage, I could not tell which. She held her head very stiffly, but high and proud. She had the longest, most slender neck of any woman I knew. Her nose was also long and thin—aquiline—the nose of an aristocrat.
    “I am perfectly well, Michelle.”
    “You do not appear perfectly well.”
    Her eyes shifted toward the woman with the chestnut hair who was just leaving. “I suppose you see many such cases.”
    “Far too many.”
    She drew in her breath and clenched her fists; I could see her will asserting itself and bringing her under its control. “I wish I could send Collins to visit the drunken brute.”
    “That would do little good. You would only provide me with yet another patient, and the waiting room is already overflowing. Besides, such women are often fiercely protective of their husbands. She may even love him.”
    “Love? You dare to speak of love, when...” She drew herself up even straighter and now the rage made her eyes shine. “Oh, if I were only...” She seized her lower lip between her teeth. “Forgive me, Michelle. You have work to do.”
    I smiled. “You have done quite well. This is, after all, your second full day out with me. Most of my friends cannot even last through a single morning.”
    That was at about three o’clock, and I saw the last patient around half past five. Unfortunately, it was the type of case which never fails to upset me. The woman was barely twenty, her baby just six months old. The infant seemed half dead, his eyes glazed over, his limbs long and spindly; he resembled some plant raised in darkness, the long stemsa desperate attempt to grow its way out of the dark and into the light.
    “How many drops have you been giving this child?” My voice shook and I tried to regain my composure.
    The girl’s eyes regarded me warily. “Drops?”
    “Drops. What is it—laudanum?”
    “I wouldn’t give ’im no laud’num or whatever. It’s only cordial.”
    I sat back wearily on my desk. I did not believe in corsets, stays, bustles, and voluminous clothing, so it was fairly easy for me to do so. My head had begun to ache, and I kneaded my forehead briefly with my palm. “Godfrey’s Cordial, I suppose?”
    The girl still regarded me warily, and with reason—a sudden urge came over me to slap her. She nodded reluctantly.
    “I don’t suppose you know what an opiate is? No, of course not. Godfrey’s is only a weaker version of laudanum. If you keep doing this to your child... You might as well poison him outright and be done with it.”
    Her eyes filled with tears, and she put her fist over her mouth. “Poison ’im?”
    My anger drained away, leaving me both tired and sad. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but Godfrey’s is very bad for babies.”
    “I ’ave to get my sewin’ work finished, and ’e just won’t keep quiet otherwise.”
    I handed her a handkerchief. “Blow your