She hadn’t meant to be, but the moment she stepped into the London hospital in Whitechapel, the smell and the injuries all around her made her feel sick. Then, when she was ordered to take off her clothes and get into bed in a cubicle, she became frightened too, so she asked the nurse to patch her up quickly and let her go. Sister Charles was well over forty, tall and slender with the regal air of a woman who expected to be obeyed. She pulled back the sheet covering Mariette’s legs and winced at the sight of them. ‘I take exception to the term “patch up”,’ she said crisply. ‘I would never allow one of my patients to leave here knowing he or she hadn’t received the right care to allow their wounds to heal well. ‘Both your head and leg wounds need thorough cleaning and stitching, and I understand there is barely an inch of your body without a laceration. You also need bed rest to recover from the ordeal you’ve been through.’ ‘I only wanted to leave quickly because I need to help my friends,’ Mariette explained.
