The Wages of Sin

Welcome to our regular feature showcasing the talents of the nation’s best writers.

Professor Williamson looked flushed and hot, clearly resenting the room full of ladies in front of whom modesty forbade him from removing his tie, loosening his collar and allowing himself to cool down a little. I lacked even that option, encased in my whalebone corset, copious layers of underlinen turned damp with sweat, my hair heavy in its knot at the nape of my neck. I knew that when we were finished, we would be exposed once again to the freezing November air and the constant rain that characterised a Scottish winter – or any other season in this blasted country for that matter. I longed for the temperate climate of the university library, or even the blustery winds of the crags above the city. I could hardly think in this stuffy, overcrowded room.

As I stood there, trying not to inhale, I heard the sound of slow handclaps behind me, and my chest tightened. I gripped the table, my nails sinking into the wood, willing myself not to tremble.

“Are you unwell, Miss Gilchrist?” Professor Williamson’s unflinching gaze bore into me, and I shook my head weakly. I could not help noticing that he had done nothing to silence the mocking applause. “Good. The operating theatre is no place for ladies. If you must abandon both your upbringing and God’s plan for you, kindly do the same with your delicate maidenly sensibilities. Once you walk through these doors, you are a doctor – nothing else. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I managed, feeling my face redden in embarrassment.

Someone giggled suspiciously close to where Julia Latymer was sitting.

“In your own time, Miss Gilchrist,” Professor Williamson said behind me coldly, his tone implying that if I didn’t pick up the knife right now, he would, and it might not be the corpse in front of us that he’d be dissecting.