McDonald turned, temple rested upon bare crossed forearms—washed and scrubbed now, though the ruddy brown of Blanky’s blood lingered in the gutters of his fingernails—as he peered at the tea Goodsir had delivered; steam curled from the patterned teacup into sick bay’s frigid air like the tendrils of some ghostly sea creature, and McDonald’s brows drew together.
“For me?” he asked, straightening before cupping both palms around the warm porcelain.
“After traumatic procedures,” Goodsir said gently, “I find few people think to ask how the surgeon is faring.” He perched upon the table’s corner, ready to talk of nothing in particular and for the tea to make everything well again, as it often did.
How fares the surgeon? (The Terror, McDonald & Goodsir)
How fares the surgeon?
McDonald turned, temple rested upon bare crossed forearms—washed and scrubbed now, though the ruddy brown of Blanky’s blood lingered in the gutters of his fingernails—as he peered at the tea Goodsir had delivered; steam curled from the patterned teacup into sick bay’s frigid air like the tendrils of some ghostly sea creature, and McDonald’s brows drew together.
“For me?” he asked, straightening before cupping both palms around the warm porcelain.
“After traumatic procedures,” Goodsir said gently, “I find few people think to ask how the surgeon is faring.” He perched upon the table’s corner, ready to talk of nothing in particular and for the tea to make everything well again, as it often did.