time, the words became worse.
Payment received for surgical removal of projectile from Gideon Rook, age nine.
Her father’s signature curved underneath in the same elegant hand Rosalie had seen on household accounts, medical labels, letters demanding payment from neighbors, and finally the document that had surrendered his daughter to Gideon Rook for fifty dollars.
Silas Ashford had once been Coldwater’s only physician.
People still called him Doctor Ashford despite the fact that drink had ruined his reputation years ago.
Rosalie had grown up listening to stories about the brilliant young surgeon her father used to be.
She had never heard Gideon’s name among them.
She lowered the paper.
Gideon stood beside the table watching her.
The bleeding from his ear had slowed, but sweat still shone along his forehead.
She pointed toward the chair.
“Sit.”
He did not understand the word, but he understood her hand.
He sat.
Rosalie
