The Clockwork Wolf by Lynn Viehl

you, young woman.”
    What he meant was I shouldn’t have been on the trolley at all; real ladies never stooped to make use of such public transport.
    â€œI just learned that a friend of mine is in hospital, sir,” I told him. “I couldn’t wait for a maid, even if I did have one.”
    â€œThe violence of one’s affections must be tempered with the proper attention to one’s reputation.” He snapped his newspaper back up.
    What he said made me go still, but not because I took it to heart. The violence of one’s affections . . .
    Lord Bestly hadn’t been sleeping or bathing at his home for months, but he’d maintained the appearance that he was. I sensed that his facade hadn’t been merely for his wife’s benefit, either. Everything at the house had felt staged, as if Bestly hadn’t wanted to leave a single clue about the life he had been living elsewhere.
    I didn’t know his reason for such absolute concealment; they could be anything from a gambling problem to a second, bigamous marriage. It wasn’t a penchant for the company of harlots; Rina would have known about that. Whatever his lordship had been up to, however, had been something so unworthy as to make him beyond reticent; he’d probably gone to great lengths to erase all evidence of it.
    â€œBecause if he hadn’t, his reputation would have been destroyed,” I muttered to myself. “But what could be so ruinous?”
    The clerk gave a second, stronger sniff and shifted another inch away from me.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    It took another hour and two changes of trolleys to reach Saint Albert’s on the North, which like so many across the territories had once been called something else butwas renamed in honor of Her Majesty’s father, Prince Albert. We had so many, in fact, that some people had taken to calling all hospitals Berties for short.
    This one was very old, the very first built in the province after the occupation. It had always been run by the Conscientious Claires, an odd order of nuns who had long ago broken from the papists to take up marriage, nursing, and an unwavering devotion to the Church of England. They were easy to spot in the city, for they always wore bright blue frocks with red-and-white-striped pinafores.
    I was met in the front entry by a young, brisk-looking nurse holding a notebook and pen. “Welcome to Saint Albert, miss,” she said, looking me over with expectant eyes. “Patient or visitor?”
    â€œI’ve come to see Reginald Docket.” If he was very ill they would only permit family access, so I added, “I’m his niece, Kit.”
    She consulted her notes. “Docket, Docket, ah yes. Sir Reginald is in the Recovery Hall.”
    Sir Reginald? “Where is that, please?”
    She used her pencil to point to the right. “Just down that hall, on the left at the end. Your uncle’s room is on the right, 714. Visiting hours end at six, but you’ll hear the bell.”
    I thanked her and followed her directions to a narrow hall of patients’ rooms, and nodded to some other nurses pushing linen and medicine carts. Although most of the rooms stood open, I found the door to room 714 closed, and knocked twice before I stepped inside.
    Two beds stood divided by a hangingblue-and-white-striped curtain, and the first was empty. I approached silently, drawing back the curtain with a trembling hand as I braced myself for the worst.
    Docket lay huddled with his back to me, his body shrouded beneath a heavy wool blanket. I’d never realized how old he was until now, seeing him like this, so frail and helpless. I didn’t want to wake him, but if he was dying . . .
    Slowly Docket turned over, groaning a little as one eyelid lifted. “My dear gel,” he said, his voice a thready whisper. “Have you come alone?”
    â€œYes, as soon I heard.” I moved