Werewright Curriculum, Lesson 4:

I had my first solo operation today. Not quite what I’d envisioned; I wasn’t even supposed to be with Victor today.

We had our first major visitors since the circus left, a family named Morgan: husband and wife. Mr. Morgan was one of my father’s old connections from the war, one of the West Point men; I think he was the one who sent me the book on botany eight years ago? I’m sure he has a military rank, but my father didn’t care enough to call him by it, so I’ll be sticking with ‘mister’. I don’t like him. I don’t think Father does either. When he talks with someone from the war he likes, he’s either laughing or sobbing. He’s so restrained with Morgan that it’s unnerving. Mother’s upset that she didn’t have time to properly prepare for guests; my brothers wanted to have a snowball fight and now they’re stuck inside. Maybe his wife was enjoying herself?

I digress. Mr. Morgan and his wife are moving West for a mining opportunity in the Montana Territory, and he decided to see father to catch up on old times. Of course, this means my family is now stuck hosting, which means I have to engage them socially and converse and tolerate his questions about whether I’ll be a good wife and whether Stephens will help or hurt with that. Took me forever just to find the time to update my notes. The gall of imposing on us this late in the year, with winter so close that snow’s already fallen here and there, after that dreadful circus business. And after all that, his wife dropped a steamer trunk on her foot.

She could barely walk, and sending her on to Montana with a broken foot would have been unconscionable, so father suggested we call on Victor’s office, at which point I realized that Mr. Morgan, not being a particularly close friend of my father, had no knowledge of the town’s new doctor. I’ve never gotten to use the word ‘apoplectic’ before, but I don’t think anything else could describe his reaction. I forget, sometimes, that the only reason Victor is allowed to work on white people is because my father let him treat his arm as a sign of trust - that and the fact that it’s a long, long walk to the nearest other doctor. Victor’s usually good at deescalating these situations, but he must have woken up in a foul mood. The second Mr. Morgan started yelling, Victor said “Hush, you’re not the patient here” and tried to talk directly to Mrs. Morgan. Refused to even acknowledge Mr. Morgan after that. I think Victor was about to get punched before father suggested that I handle the treatment.

Mr. Morgan agreed; he would at least accept a female doctor so long as she was white. I expected Victor to quibble, or at least insist privately that I don’t use werewrightwork, but he told me to handle it as I saw fit. He didn’t even stay to supervise, just went up to his sleeping quarters and left me and Mrs. Morgan downstairs. I’ve seen him upset before but not with this bitterness or despondence. I keep worrying about him.

But after all that, I got to operate:

Step 1: Ensure the patient’s compliance. Victor put a lot of effort into training me to handle this, but it didn’t take much for me to convince her that I could heal her foot one-hundred percent if she just didn’t ask questions and told no one. I gave her some of the anesthetic wine he keeps in his office, waited until it knocked her out, and got to work.

Step 2: Removal of the affected region for further disassembly. Whalebone knife for the skin, then iron for the bone. Proud of the cut I made to the ankle.

Step 3: Cleaning the wound. The flesh of the foot was so bruised that I ended up stripping most of the top of the foot off and letting it soak in a chamomile solution.

Step 4: Bone extraction. This was the worst part by far. There are twenty-six bones in a single foot, and I think she managed to crack every single one of them. Every time I pulled one out, it threatened to snap again on a hairline fracture. The larger bones were too close together and fragile to move safely. I had to leave them in, work around the flesh.

Step 5: Bone repair. Typical procedure is to brace the bone while we wrap it in copper, allowing it to heal over time once it’s placed back into the body. Unfortunately, Victor’s only shown me this with iron rods, but those were meant for femurs and ribs, not these toe bones. I didn’t dare leave the patient to ask him if we had any smaller ones. I ended up using an augur to drill holes in the bone, through which I threaded the wiring, reinforcing the usual wrapping of copper wiring. I hope mother’s pleased that I finally learned to appreciate a good catch stitch.

Step 6: Flesh mending. Much easier after the horror of step 5. A bit of horse materials and it’s as new.

Step 7: Reassembly. I was having trouble getting the bones to reattach to the tendons, so I ended up using more sewing to secure them, this time using the normal thread for stitches. Victor’s said that other crafts can bring insight to werewrightwork. I wonder if I’m the first person to try and apply it this way.

After this, I broke out some smelling salts and I ended up talking with Mrs. Morgan - or Ruth, as she let me call her - as I bound and stabilized her foot. She asked a lot of questions about how smart I was and what I knew. I couldn’t let anything about werewrightwork get out, but I told her about all of my books and safe bits and pieces of what Victor and Ms. Walstead have been teaching me, stuff that wouldn’t get either of them in trouble. She had plans for higher education, but her father went ill, the money for tuition went to doctors. Marriage came soon after her father died, and I’ve already recounted Mr. Morgan’s opinion on women’s education. I’m going to sneak her some of my older books before she leaves.

I could have done better, I know. Her foot is slightly too flexible now; it undulates when she stretches her toe muscles. I probably should have figured out a better solution for the bracing. Considering the circumstances though, I think I did well, and I think Victor agrees with me. He was still upset and enervated when I checked on him after Mrs. Morgan left, but he hugged me? For a good ten seconds? He’s only shaken my hand twice before. I think that’s proof. I’ve done it. I’m good enough to do this on my own now.

I hope he doesn’t use that as an excuse to slow down lessons; I’m not done learning. Walstead’s words are still on my mind. I need to get out of this town, establish myself in academia, become the great scholar I always knew I could be. But I also want to know what exactly is the matter with Victor Freestone - and Matilda Walstead for that matter. I’ve blamed my curiosity on science before, but I must be honest, the two of them are constant, unending walking mysteries and the thought of solving them, understanding them keeps me up at night. I’m guessing this is one of those unwomanly things I’m not supposed to be doing again. Oh well.