𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞 ~ 𝐺𝑎𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑙 𝑉𝑜𝑙𝑡𝑧

chapter one

— England — November 1887

— Present Day —

Astoria raced across the street, narrowly escaping a carriage that nearly ran her over. She paid no attention to the coachman's insults and continued on her way, out of breath. When the massive church bell began to ring, she cursed. She was going to be late. Redoubling her efforts, she only slowed down when she saw the marquee finally rising before her.

The crowd gathered at the entrance, and Astoria stopped for a moment to scrutinize her reflection in the window of a shop. She adjusted a brown lock under her hat, hiding the length of her hair. Her pants were too baggy, but otherwise, she could easily pass for a boy, provided she kept her head down. The bandage wrapped tightly around her chest itched from the mad rush, but she ignored the discomfort and slipped into line.

"He’s the best, I hear it’s impossible to get tickets to his show," a man in front of her said.

Astoria looked up, scanning the crowd for a female face. Nothing. Maybe other women had the same idea and dressed up like her. She stood on tiptoe to try to see further. When she saw a man asking for tickets, she groaned in frustration. Her chances seemed slim.

The marquee was imposing, its dark canvas clearly visible against the gray sky. The thick panels of fabric, stretched and secured by sturdy ropes, flapped slightly in the wind. At the entrance, large posters yellowed by time extolled the prowess of a famous doctor, promising a demonstration of surgery never seen before. The letters, written with an almost theatrical elegance, announced in red:

The Art of Healing: Public Surgical Demonstration – Dr. Arthur Monclair."

Glancing around, Astoria stepped out of the line and around the marquee. She spotted a discreet entrance, apparently unguarded, except for a young man leaning against a crate, smoking a thick cigar. Astoria waited, hidden in the shadows, and as soon as he stepped away to enter the marquee, she quickly slipped behind him.

Once inside, she crouched behind a massive beam, her heart pounding wildly. She risked a glance around. The wooden benches were arranged in a semicircle and faced a rudimentary platform, lit by flickering oil lamps. In the center of the platform was a metal operating table, topped with instruments surgical instruments carefully arranged on a shiny tray.

A man, visibly nervous, lay on the table, shirtless, his wrists and ankles bound with leather straps to prevent him from moving. The smell of ether was already in the air. Astoria watched a few of the doctor's assistants busy adjusting vials and preparing bandages.

Dr. Montclair, dressed in a spotless apron stained by previous operations, was not yet visible, but the anticipation created a mixture of excitement and apprehension among the spectators outside. It was a scene at once fascinating and morbid, where science and spectacle merged in an age when the medical art was both feared and admired.

Astoria remained hidden as the crowd filed in, filling the pews. Murmurs rose and mingled. As two guards closed the heavy curtains, Dr. Montclair turned to his audience, raising his scalpel gleaming in the lamplight.

"Gentlemen," he began, "tonight, you will be the first to witness an operation that will change medicine as we know it. My patient has an abdominal infection and without intervention, he is doomed. Tonight, I save his life."

Astoria watched as the doctor's assistants circled around him, presenting him with medical instruments and vials. The doctor slid the scalpel over the patient's taut skin with fascinating precision.

"As you can see," the doctor continued in a clear voice, "the incision is clean and precise. The secret, gentlemen, lies in the rigorous sterilization of our instruments. Unfortunately, many of my colleagues persist in neglecting this essential step."