Chapter 15: The Doctor's Verdict
The doctor arrived within ten minutes, a thin, nervous man with spectacles and a worn leather bag. He worked in silence under Ron’s unwavering gaze, cleaning the long, deep gash on Leila’s forearm with a solution that made her hiss and tremble. Ron stood at the foot of the massive bed, his arms crossed, a statue of contained violence. The only sound was the doctor’s steady breathing and the occasional clink of instruments on a silver tray.
“It is clean. The cut is straight,” the doctor murmured, mostly to himself. He began to suture, the needle pulling skin together with a faint, terrible tugging sensation. Leila turned her face away, pressing it into the dark silk of Ron’s pillow. It smelled of him, of sandalwood and night air. She focused on that, trying to divorce herself from the pain in her arm.
Ron watched the doctor’s hands, watched the black thread stitch her flesh back together. His eyes flicked to her face, pale and tear-streaked, then to the crumpled talisman she still clutched in her uninjured hand. The dragon was stained a rusty brown.
“It will heal cleanly. No significant damage to the muscle. She is lucky,” the doctor said finally, tying off the last stitch and wrapping her forearm in a neat, white bandage. He began packing his bag, then paused. “A young body heals quickly. Is she eating well? Sleeping?”
Leila, her voice muffled by the pillow, said, “I eat.”
Ron’s gaze pinned the doctor. “Check her.”
The doctor nodded, wiping his hands on a cloth. He turned back to Leila, his manner professionally gentle. “Any dizziness? Fatigue beyond the ordinary?”
She shook her head.
“Your appetite? What have you been craving?”
Leila thought. The mansion’s kitchen provided delicate, rich foods she’d never seen before. Lately, some of them turned her stomach. “The… the potatoes,” she said softly. “They make me feel sick. I liked sour plums. The preserved ones from the market.”
A subtle stillness came over the doctor. He adjusted his spectacles. “And when was your last monthly bleeding?”
The question hung in the air. Leila blinked, confused. She had to think back, counting the chaotic weeks since the soldiers came, since her life ended and this strange, terrifying new one began. It had been… before. Well before.
“I don’t… I am not sure. Before the harvest,” she whispered.
The doctor’s eyes met Ron’s for a fraction of a second. Ron’s expression didn’t change, but the air in the room thickened, grew charged.
“Leila,” Ron said, his voice low. “Rest now. Close your eyes.”
The command was absolute. She obeyed, shutting her eyes tight, but her other senses amplified. She heard the rustle of the doctor gathering his things, the soft tread of two pairs of footsteps leaving the room, the click of the study door closing across the hall.
In the study, Ron went straight to the carved sideboard and poured two fingers of whiskey. He didn’t offer any to the doctor, who stood waiting, hands clasped.
“Well?”
“The girl is with child, sir. Early stages. Perhaps six, seven weeks. The nausea, the missed courses, the dietary aversions… it is consistent.”
Ron took a slow drink. The liquor burned a familiar path down his throat. He looked out the window at the neon smear of the Bund, the warships silhouetted on the black river. An heir. A product of his own careless seed, planted in the most unexpected soil.
“The fall,” Ron said, not turning. “The shock. Would it… jeopardize the pregnancy?”
“It is possible. The body is resilient. She is young and healthy, despite her slight frame. With care, it should sustain.” The doctor cleared his throat. “Given the circumstances… and her… origin… the necessary tea is simple to prepare. It can be done discreetly, with minimal discomfort. I can administer it tonight, if you wish.”
Ron turned then. The movement was slow, deliberate. He set his glass down on the polished wood with a soft, definitive click.
“What did you say?”
The doctor faltered. “I only meant, sir, given she is not your wife… and the political climate… a child of mixed heritage, born of a local woman, could be seen as a complication. The termination would be simple—”
“That child,” Ron interrupted, his voice a quiet, dangerous rasp, “is my blood. It is my heir. Do you understand the words coming out of your mouth?”
The doctor went very pale. He took a step back, bowing deeply. “My most profound apologies, sir. I misunderstood. I spoke out of turn. Forgive me.”
Ron let him sweat for a long moment, the hum of the city the only sound. He finished his whiskey, the liquid fire doing nothing to calm the strange, tectonic shift inside him. He thought of the talisman, stitched in secret. He thought of her on the stairs, bleeding, reaching for that silly piece of cloth instead of crying for help. He thought of the absolute trust when she closed her eyes on his command.
A complication. The doctor was a fool. This wasn’t a complication. It was a possession. The ultimate possession.
“You will return tomorrow. You will examine her again. You will provide a schedule of care. You will speak of this to no one. If a single word leaves this room, if a single breath of rumor touches her, I will personally ensure your practice, your reputation, and your ability to breathe are permanently terminated. Is the condition clear?”
“Perfectly, sir. Perfectly clear.” The doctor was trembling now.