One Year Later... (Part I)

"Try moving it now?" Doctor Zakharov says, prodding the skeletal implement attached to my leg with his tongs.

And I do try. Only it's not enough and the prosthetic knee budges barely an inch off the bed before slumping back down with a soft judder, sending a spike of pain up my tailbone. The doctor hums thoughtfully as he scrawls something on his ledger. I consider briefly the merits of stabbing him through the eye, but no — Tikhon would be upset with me if I did, after he'd gone through so much trouble to secure me his services.

"It gets easier with practice," the doctor says. "It also helps not to exert yourself."

I shake my head weakly. "I don't know if my responsibilites will permit me such rest."

"You're not in the army anymore, you know. You can afford to let go of yourself a little."

"Can I really? Is that not how the war started in the first place? The people in charge asleep at the helm?"

"And now it is over," he points out, "and you are free to reap the rewards and enjoy the privileges of the landed gentryman— or gentrywoman, I suppose. I've always envied you Chambiards for that. Back in Volkhovya, men don't really earn titles through service, much less women." He wipes his implements against a foul-smelling gauze and inspects them under the warm lantern glow. "If you can't get your handmaid to stay awake and wait on you throughout the night, I would recommend getting another one."

"Anneliese doesn't get along with domestics," I say, shifting uncomfortably over the sheets. "It'd be more work to clean up after her fights if she has to work in a team."

"I meant get a different maid." The doctor taps his tuning fork against the magiocrystal bone graft with a frown. "I never liked this one. Too mouthy, no respect. If she thinks herself better than all the other domestics of the world then all the more reason to sack her."

I give a noncommittal hum. "I'll give it some thought."

"Yes." He nods to himself. "It is no virtue to be a meek master." I shoot him a long, hard look that makes him wince through his coat. "Ah, my apologies— I am perhaps, how do you say, sentimental."

"I don't like being compared to her," I remind him.

"I know, and I am sorry. It's only that… she has not had reason to call upon me for a long while." His eyes drop to the floor briefly. "I suppose that is a good thing, but ah, I am rambling again. Will you consider abiding by my instructions this time, Madame Desvaux?"

I nod. He murmurs a few fond words as he finishes organising his bag, then lifts my new pair of legs and inserts them into the slings of the strange mechanism attached to my bedpost, before flicking a switch with his thumb. The contraption whirs to life and moves my legs in slow circles as if riding a bicycle. The doctor smiles at me proudly, and I resist the urge to hide my face or curse him out. "Thank you," I say instead.

He gives a small bow. "Shall I convey your regards to the Prince?"

"I would appreciate it. How… How is Tikhon doing these days?"

"Busy, from what I hear. Building peace after a decade of war takes a lot out of a man, but I'm sure you'll hear from him again soon enough." He offers me one last smile as he turns to leave the room— and nearly slams nose-first into Anneliese for his trouble. My former sergeant barely spares him a glance as she strides over to my side in her ridiculous, flouncy dress, a tray of fish sticks and cashews gliding smoothly into my lap. I grin at her; she simply stares at the doctor. "Why is he still here?" she whispers, and I can't help but snigger.

"I could ask the same for you," the man scoffs, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with an imperious glower, before turning on his heel and pushing out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.

"Every night's a bad night with him, huh?" Anneliese folds her forearms behind her and squares her shoulders, staring glumly at the spot of wooden flooring scuffed by the man's boots. She shakes her head. "Maybe consider getting a nurse instead."

"You ever know a nurse who does prosthetics?"

"Plenty. It's like you forgot how many tortured the men back in the sick tents."

"They're not as good with magical ones as the men."

"They said the same thing about us women soldiers, didn't they? I know you only agreed to hire him over that asshole prince's recommendation."

"He's not an asshole."

"He's Volkhovsky and aristo," she spits, digging her rump against the edge of the bed. "I swear to God, if I have to turn down one more blasted luncheon invite— why is it always luncheon? What is it with you aristocrats stuffing yourselves at all hours of the day?"

"There's worse vices out there, and I'm no aristocrat." I narrow my eyes at her. "I'll pack some leftovers for you if that's what it takes to shut you up."

"That's not what I was getting at." Her scowl cleaves sharper lines across her face. "The Schuldams, the Wachtwalds, and those bloody vultures the Brandgavens still haven't given up on bothering us. Their patriarch just got done talking my ear off over the details of their future goddamned summer home, which, ugh… they're asking for the plot by the church now."

"No," I state. "We're planning a renovation—"

"That's what I told him. He still insisted that he speaks to you directly. He's offering a, ahem, a price that he's confident the Comtesse Desvaux will find agreeable."

"In exchange for an introduction to his son," I say, and suppress a groan when she responds with nothing but a low shrug.

"I told him to call again tomorrow."

"Wonderful…" I grumble, another spike of pain driving up my hip when the stupid spinning machine snags against the swaying drapes of my bedframe. It'd be fine if it was leg pain, I'd really be fine with that, but the legs aren't there anymore — no control, no feeling, like nails pinning me down to the bed. I try desperately to adjust my position but only succeed in setting off a slow, rolling stomach cramp that nearly makes me throw up all over my fish sticks. I bite back the feeble curse before it forms and try not to think about how many months of this torture I have left to go. "I wanna shoot something," I mumble.

"You and me both—" She snaps her mouth closed. "Wait, no—"

"Will you take me to the range?"

"No."

"But I wanna. It's so stuffy all the time in this room."

"You can shoot at stuff all you want once you're healed."

"But I wanna shoot stuff now. Your mistress, the Comtesse de Mondmaden, commands it!"

"Comtesse— I swear to God, Rue…"

"Please." My voice drops to a trembling whisper, and I catch her eye, injecting more sincerity into my tone than I actually meant. "I need this, Annie… I really, really need this. I don't think I can do this for another week… I can't feel my legs… It's driving me crazy…"

"… I know." Anneliese frowns. "I'm sorry. Would you—" she hesitates, "I'll see if I'm able to round up a few of the tenants to take you down the river again, if that'll help."

A pang of guilt stabs my chest. "Is that really alright…? We'll have to reset the machine when I get back, and…"

"S'not that hard, Rue." She pushes off the bed and brushes the drapes clear of the contraption, adjusting the slings with a confidence that I'm sure is faked. "I'll leave you alone for twenty minutes while I go get the boat?"

I swallow my pride and murmur, "Yeah. Please come back soon."

Anneliese cocks a half-smile and closes the door behind her.

One minute passes. It feels like five.

Five minutes pass, and another cramp is building at the base of my spine.

I let out a strangled laugh. Nobody is here to punish me for my weakness anyway. Maybe I shouldn't have lied to the doctor about the cramps getting better. Maybe I should have accepted Mayor Brandgraven's offer to sponsor an appointment with the local medical university. Maybe the war isn't actually over, and Doctor Zakharov was sent here to assassinate me over an unpaid grudge — whose? I've lost count of how many families and communities I've wronged over the years.

It only took the war ending to remind me of how precarious the title of "hero" really is.