TMIAP Chapter 13

Monica rolled up the sleeves of the green dress—the sort of thing grandmothers might wear—because the heat left her no choice. She dithered over the long skirt, then folded the waistline twice and pinned it in place. Exposing her calves felt marginally better than before.

Still, nothing could be done about the perspiration.

Fanning herself with her hand, Monica went to meet Martinael's physician, a young man named Mekal.

He looked precisely as one might expect of doctors his age: pedantic and gloomy. His nose, which supported round spectacles, had a slight hook to it, and his lips were thin. His frame was skeletal, his fingers knobbly with prominent joints.

It was exactly the sort of impression Monica had formed from perpetual encounters with irritable doctors on the battlefield.

His manner of speech matched.

"A pleasure to meet you."

His voice suggested what a disagreeable goat might sound like if transformed into a man. Monica flinched involuntarily before forcing a smile and offering her greeting.

"Master Martinael received his examination first and has gone to wash."

"To wash?"

"Ah, I've been testing a newly developed treatment method."

Only then did Monica notice two maids bustling about inside Martinael's room, tidying the washing area with considerable efficiency.

When Monica's eyes asked the question, Mekal grinned and answered.

"Mud massage therapy. One covers the body thoroughly in mud and remains that way for some time—it lowers body temperature and the earth's energy can drive out illness."

Mekal brushed his sleeves several times. A bit of mud clung to them.

Now that she looked, his fingernails were packed with dirt—most unbecoming for a young gentleman. Though it rather suited him, truth be told. Monica smiled awkwardly.

'Mud massage, indeed...'

If such things could drive out illness, would the orphanage children who became covered in mud daily have died so helplessly of fever?

But Monica kept her mouth shut.

She would gain nothing by offering such commentary to a doctor far better educated than herself.

'His temperament doesn't appear particularly mild, either...'

Instead, Monica sat obediently in the chair before Mekal.

"Oh my."

Mekal's gaze traveled to Monica's legs.

Monica drew them back with a soft sound of dismay. She'd hastily hiked up the dress, causing the worn petticoat pinned beneath to crumple messily to one side, exposing her calf.

"Have you injured yourself?"

Monica froze, but Mekal proved a doctor with professional dedication, at least. He'd assessed the situation from the bloodied strip of cloth alone.

The man rolled his eyes briefly before rapidly opening his medical bag and offering to treat her.

What fortune, to have a doctor attend to a mere scratch. Monica felt guilty for her uncharitable thoughts about Mekal's temperament.

"I went to market briefly this morning and was pushed—I fell."

"Dear me. What a dreadful person."

While unwrapping the cloth from her knee, her scraped palm was inadvertently exposed as well.

Mekal seized Monica's hand and produced a brown bottle, moistening cotton wool with the liquid inside. Monica's eyes brightened.

"I've seen this before."

"Ah, have you? Of course. Madame Mollette mentioned you worked on the battlefield."

The red liquid was an antiseptic supplied to the front lines toward the war's end. It smelled vile, but once applied it didn't wash off easily—the nurses had called it "the red medicine" and praised it enthusiastically.

Purchasing it oneself was rather expensive, however.

"But it's only recently available. I heard our nation found it too costly to supply the front lines—only minimal quantities were distributed."

Mekal's eyes gleamed. He'd appeared gloomy, but the mention of his specialty sparked his interest. Monica extended her palm gladly and chattered on.

"I was at the hospital in Arvidd."

"Ah, Arvidd."

Not the foremost front, but Arvidd was a strategic point.

Thanks to terrain resembling a fortress, defense proved excellent—the position never fell, even at war's end.

Consequently, critical personnel from the foremost lines received treatment at Arvidd's hospital through the war's middle period.

"I heard countless stories of those who fought at Arvidd. I would have dearly wished to go myself, but..."

Mekal coughed. Ahem, ahem.

A common tale. The better-bred and better-educated tended to remain distant from war.

Still, his embarrassed expression suggested some shame in the matter.

"They said one needed to reach the very front lines to obtain 'the green medicine.'"

Monica's eyes narrowed.

'The green medicine' was a drug administered on the battlefield to patients suffering mental anguish.

Apparently, his interest lay in that medication—his trailing words hadn't reflected shame at avoiding the war.

So, a man genuinely in love with his profession. Monica revised her assessment accordingly.

"I was curious. I heard it improved one's mood when taken..."

Even as he spoke, Mekal steadily unwound the cloth from Monica's knee.

When he removed the wretchedly wrapped strip, the thoroughly scraped wound was revealed. Mekal winced. "Tsk."

"Even that troublemaker Martinael has rarely injured himself this badly."

Monica hunched her shoulders in mortification, yet her eyes flicked to the discarded cloth scrap.

Mekal finished soaking the cotton in red medicine and disinfected Monica's knee. Monica reached out surreptitiously and grasped the filthy rag. Mekal glanced at her and waved his hand dismissively.

"Leave it. A maid will clear it away."

"Oh, I can dispose of it."

Monica answered awkwardly and rolled the cloth into her pocket.

That rude man probably wouldn't want his torn shirt returned. But somehow she felt uneasy simply abandoning it.

Whether Monica did so or not, Mekal continued treating her wounds while speaking more enthusiastically about 'the green medicine.'

"A university contemporary volunteered for the battlefield—not particularly close, so I inquired about 'the green medicine' recipe with difficulty, only to learn he'd left everything to the nurses! How shameful for a physician..."

A physician's shame. For someone who hadn't gone to the battlefield to say such things seemed rather—Monica interrupted at an appropriate moment.

"What shall I do for Master Martinael?"

"Master Martinael, you ask."

Fortunately, Mekal appeared not to notice Monica had redirected the conversation.

"Fresh air and moderate exercise are best. He should walk twice daily."

"Yes."

"Treat him well."

Was that all? When Monica blinked, Mekal grinned.

"Which is to say, let him do as he pleases."

"Let him do... as he pleases?"

How suggestive. Mekal shrugged.

"Master Martinael has a weak constitution but runs hot. Children generally have higher temperatures, but his is exceptionally elevated. For such children, anger becomes poison."

"Ah."

"When anger accumulates, fever rises immediately, and fever melts the brain."

Mekal mimed tapping his temple. Tap, tap.

Further instructions followed—if the child developed high fever, send word to him first, cool the body and administer medicine immediately. Monica continued nodding.

Mekal chattered on while treating Monica's wounds. Presently, both knees were wrapped in clean bandages.

"Now, for your palm—keep it as is today, wash it with water tomorrow morning, then disinfect again. Consider this medicine a gift."

"Oh my."

Mekal gave an unexpected present—he handed her the bottle of red medicine. When Monica brightened, Mekal smiled.

"Your name?"

"Ah, Monica."

"Miss Monica may use it, and keep it to apply when Martinael injures himself."

Naturally. As if he'd simply give away expensive medicine. Nothing in this world comes free.

At that moment—

"Doctor!"

The door flew open and Martinael burst forth. She'd met him yesterday, but what a spirited boy he was.

"When did you arrive?"

Sociable, too. The boy spoke rapidly before Monica could even greet him.

Did you eat lunch, Doctor? I thought we were eating lunch together today—I was surprised when you didn't come. What's that? Are you hurt?

Thanks to the boy's ceaseless prattle, Monica blinked several times before managing to answer his final question.

"I went out briefly today and fell."

"See! Look at this!"

At those words, the boy clapped his hands and turned to Mekal.

"You said adults don't fall!"

Mekal wrinkled his nose. Monica glanced about nervously despite herself. Clearly, the doctor had told the boy—eager to grow up quickly—such a lie as "adults don't fall."

But really, Doctor, what possessed you to tell a lie that would be exposed the moment anyone around you showed the slightest carelessness...

Naturally, Mekal didn't blame Monica for exposing his lie—told to encourage the young boy to fall less often, even if discovered.

The doctor closed his medical bag and departed shortly after, leaving only the boy and Monica.

"Miss, what shall we play?"

"Now, Master Martinael."

Monica smiled and produced the book she'd prepared.

"I am your governess as well, you realize."

Martinael's expectant face crumpled.

Monica continued smiling brightly. So I'd love nothing more than to play with you, wouldn't I?

But such is adulthood. One falls in the morning yet must work by afternoon.

Martinael whined that he didn't want to, crumpling his pretty sky-blue jacket. Though Mekal's words about "letting him do as he pleases" meant she hadn't intended to torment the boy long, he proved more mature than expected.

Monica succeeded in getting Martinael seated, after all.