The Serpent's Shadow

new son lived, breathed, and drove a cab, neither Amelia nor Maya would ever have to brave the dark to walk home at the end of a day at the Fleet. He turned up, every night at closing time, to see if either woman was there that day, taking them safely through every possible hazard and escorting them right to their own doorways.

Which was just as well, all things considered. Too many times, pre-Larkin, Maya had been forced to defend herself with her umbrella and Amelia with a string 'miser's purse' that contained, not money, but a lump of lead. It wasn't so much the inhabitants of the neighborhood that were the problem, it was the 'visitors,' men drunk and looking for a whore, any whore, and knowing that the women of these streets could be had for less than a shilling. They tended to assume that any woman out on the street after dark was a whore, and that the only difference between a woman who rebuffed their offer and one who took it was the small matter of price.

'Mis'rble day, eh, Miz Maya?' The salute came from the pavement at her feet as she strode past, and she grinned down at the filthy face looking up at her.

'It would be less miserable if you hadn't a hangover, Bob,' she replied, stepping over his sprawling legs, then making a skip to the side to avoid a puddle of liquid best left unidentified.

He only laughed. He was a day laborer, when he could find work, and when he couldn't, he drank up every cent he made or could borrow. He had no family, claimed he didn't want one, and as Maya knew only too well, was dying of tuberculosis. There was no cure for him, and he knew it, and so did she. Not even her healing talents could save him; she could prolong his life, but he didn't want her to. He had once, in a bout of drunken confession, told her that he hoped one day that his bottle of 'blue ruin' would be out of a bad lot that would poison him and kill him quicker. That he wouldn't take his own life but courted an 'accident' on a daily basis was a contradiction she never tried to resolve. Instead, on the rare occasions she could coax him into the Fleet, she did what she could to ease his pain and his breathing— and no more. It was her duty to fight death—but not when her patient pursued it, and had good reason to welcome its all-enfolding wings.

She dodged peddlers and pickpockets, pimps and prostitutes, human refuse and the refuse humans left behind, and was mostly greeted with the same ironic cheer that Bob had used with her. She was respected here, and if not beloved, was certainly welcome. She, unlike other charity doctors, made no demands that her patients 'act like good Christians' or be one of the 'worthy poor'—whatever that was supposed to mean. She dispensed medicine, sound advice, compassion, and some well-earned tongue-lashings in equal measure, and the people who came to her for help understood and respected that.

But as she neared the entrance to the clinic, shouts and shrieks of pain sent her from a brisk walk into a run; she picked up her skirts in both hands, the better to lengthen her stride, exposing ankles and even calves to the applause of a couple of drunken louts she didn't recognize. One was cuffed over the side of his head by a fellow with a barrowload of potatoes for sale as she sprinted past.

'Shoaw sum r'spect, ye buggerin' swine!' said the peddler as another shriek sent her into a full-out run. 'That there's a doctor, not 'un'a yer tuppeny whoors!' Yes, it was going to be a busy day at the Fleet. Perhaps she should not have asked Ganesh to remove unspecified obstacles, since it seemed that he had removed the ones between new patients and her!

Tom brought her home just after ten that night, limp as a rag, yet strangely elated. How could she not be elated? She had saved the hand of a man who would otherwise have lost it, she had delivered three healthy babies in rapid succession, one presented breech that she had somehow managed to turn in the womb before labor was too far along, and one set of twins. All the patients recovering in her ward were doing well. Although the work had come in the door steadily from the moment she arrived to when they closed their doors, for once nothing had gone horribly, or even mildly, wrong. It had been a day full of small triumphs, not disasters.

Tom descended from his perch up on the driver's box and handed her out with a sober propriety that

would have had anyone who knew him and his usual truculent manner with a fare gaping in astonishment. 'You look done in, Miss Maya,' he said, as she smiled at him, grateful for the support of his hand tonight. 'You go get some rest.'

'I will, Tom, I promise,' she said. But not just now. . . . There were too many things to do first, not the least of which was to check to see if there were any messages or letters for her. Her other clients, the ladies who paid her so very well, tended to make appointments for a given afternoon on the evening before. Unless, of course, there was an emergency, in which case she would find a frantic message waiting for her, or even a messenger waiting to guide her to the emergency.

There were no messages, but there was a letter, waiting on the tray beside the door. She frowned at it for a moment, not recognizing the handwriting. As she was about to open it, Gupta appeared at the end of the hall. He had such an odd expression on his face that she put the letter back down on the tray. It could wait.

'Gupta, is there something wrong?' she asked, hurrying toward him, her weariness forgotten.

'No, mem sahib—' He hesitated. 'But I have great need to speak with you. There are things I must tell you; things it is time that you should hear.' None of this made any sense to her. 'Gupta, it is very late, and I am very tired—' she began.

But Gupta shook his head stubbornly. 'I have seen a thing, and heard a thing, and there is much I must tell you. And tomorrow may be too late.'

That, coupled with his expression, made her shake off her tiredness with an effort. 'Then take me where you will, and I will listen,' she replied.

She wasn't particularly surprised when he took her to the conservatory. Incense burned before the statue of