TwelveBridget had no comb or mirror, and she wouldn’t bother asking Tate for the items. It would be a long time, if ever, before she wanted to see her reflection again. She gathered her hair and pushed in pins. She only cared that it covered the scarring and didn’t hang to interfere with her work. She didn’t care about looking as coiffured as Tate.
Dressed, Bridget sat on the side of the bed and waited for Tate to come with the all clear. This was day three of consciousness, and she felt quick, sharp stabbing only when she forgot her wound and made careless movements. Doc had climbed the stairs late the afternoon before, the whiskey on his breath as cloying as the floral scent of Lily’s midnight visits. Bridget tried to engage him in conversation as she had Dr. Potter, but he’d only looke
