It was nonsense, of course; nobody needed Varney any more than they needed a bout of influenza, or some other unpleasant and debilitating condition, but he had to admit it felt pleasant hearing the lie. It was a kind lie, and Ruthven was a kindly host.
Varney watched Greta industriously consuming toast, and had to look away when she licked marmalade off her fingers in an unself-conscious sort of way. I’m not going to haul him out of restful sleep for interrogation, she had said. The white gauze bandage on her throat was very bright in the kitchen’s warm illumination.
Without meaning to, he said out loud, “Why do you do this?”
Greta looked up. “Do what?” she asked, with her mouth full.
Varney was more than a little mortified, but made himself continue. “Why do you … help people like that creature upstairs? He would have killed you if he could.”
She put down the piece of toast. “It’s my job,” she said.
“Why do you do it, though?”
“Because somebody needs to.” Greta shrugged. “There really are not that many supernatural physicians in the area—in fact, there aren’t many of us, period—and the need is never going to go away.”
“But he’s an enemy,” Varney said, trying again. “I can perhaps understand the generalized motivation to provide care for a disenfranchised patient base, but he isn’t a patient, he’s an enemy captive.”
“Firstly,” said Greta, holding up a finger, “that’s not quite accurate; he’s been officially expelled from their nasty little murder club. And secondly, it doesn’t matter what he is. He needs help, and I am trained to provide that help, and have in fact taken an oath to give that help whenever and however it is required. It’s not always a superlative pleasure, but it is my job.”
“And you still took the job, knowing what it would entail,” he said.
“Yes.” Greta pushed her plate away, looking steadily at him. “It was my father’s job first, and I’ve always known what I wanted to do. It was simply a question of getting there.”
Varney felt his hands curl into fists. “But we’re monsters,” he said, and had to close his eyes. It sounded so puerile out loud.
She failed to reply for long enough that he cautiously opened one eye to see whether she’d actually left the room, but she was still sitting across the kitchen table from him, looking almost evanescently tired. Varney felt a sudden sharp flush of profound dislike for himself.
“You are not human,” she said at last, “but you are people. All of you. The ghouls, the mummies, the sanguivores, the weres, the banshees, the wights, the bogeys, everyone who comes to me for help, everyone who trusts me to provide it. You are all people, and you all deserve medical care, no matter what you do or have done, and you deserve to be able to seek and receive that care without putting yourselves in jeopardy. What I do is necessary, and while it isn’t in the slightest bit easy, it is also the thing I want to do more than anything else in the world.”
Varney looked very hard at the table, as if it could offer any sensible answers. He was conscious of the fact that nothing whatsoever in his life was necessary, including him.
“I don’t know what to do about this,” Greta said in a different tone of voice, and he looked up. “Any of this. The—attacks. The mad monks. Whatever is happening is not something I can fix, and—I am not very good at dealing with situations like that, I’m afraid.”
“You seem to be dealing remarkably well,” said Varney.
“I’m completely out of my depth. The only thing I can do is my job, so, yes, I am going to take care of our new acquaintance. And hope like hell that he can give us some answers, which is why I need you: I want you to do the thralling.”
“I will,” said Varney, too fast, too sharp. “I will. Absolutely. Anything I can do to help.”
Greta smiled suddenly, and he had to blink. It was a little like watching a small and self-contained sunrise. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m … very glad you’re here.”
Just for a moment, Varney thought that he was, too. For a moment.
Greta straightened up, back to business. “Someone’s got to go shopping,” she said. “Taking advantage of offered hospitality is one thing, but we’ve eaten Ruthven out of house and home.”
Varney sat back from the table, both glad that the conversation had changed subject and wishing desperately that it had not. “And that wretch Cranswell finished off the coffee this morning,” he said.
“Damn. I suppose I’d better go, if Ruthven lets me borrow the Volvo.” She tucked her hair behind her ears again, looking as if she didn’t relish the prospect in the least.
“I could go,” Varney said, surprising himself.
She looked up at him, and he felt his face go warm, but made himself hold her gaze. “That is, if Ruthven would lend me his automobile. It would be … pleasant, to be of use.”
“You sure?” Greta was smiling again, less intense but still present.
“If you would be so good as to write out a list of provisions, I will gladly go and fetch them,” he said. “You have more important matters to attend to, Doctor.”
“Well … thank you very much, in that case,” she said, apparently convinced. “I appreciate the thought. Hand me that notepad? Let’s see,” she said, writing down “coffee” in a much nicer version of her normal handwriting scrawl, for clarity’s sake, and not at all because it looked better. “What else are we out of?”
When he had gone, Greta began to tidy up the kitchen, conscious of doing so as an attempt to distract herself from the ongoing uncertainty of the situation. You seem to be dealing remarkably well, Sir Francis had said, and the hilarious inaccuracy of the statement was just about balanced out by how much she wanted it to be true.
It was a considerable relief, therefore, when Fastitocalon poked his head round the kitchen doorway and said, “There you are. Good. Can you come and look at one of the ghouls? Ruthven sent me to find you.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, a hair too quickly. “I’ll get my bag.”
As soon as she opened the cellar door, the baby’s thin wailing was audible. She hurried down the steps, and then had to stop for a moment, blinking, to fully take in the sight of Edmund Ruthven cradling a very small ghoul in his arms. His expression was not one Greta could ever recall having seen on those patrician features before: a kind of besotted astonishment. Tiny green hands clutched at his shirt.
The rest of the ghouls were hiding in the shadows, other than Kree-akh and the ghoullet’s mother, who was looking more worried than ever.
Ruthven looked up as she approached. “Greta,” he said, and had to clear his throat and try again to get his voice sounding normal. “Could you have a look at this little chap? He’s not tremendously well.”