The air in the small, cramped tent behind the stage turned sour the moment Faust began to unwind the linen strips from Mateus's shoulder.
As the final layer fell away, a stench hit the air—a heavy, cloying smell of rot and sweet decay that made even Lola take a half-step back.
Faust didn't flinch, but his eyes narrowed in genuine shock.
The skin of the shoulder was a nightmare of bruised geography: deep violets bled into midnight blacks, the discoloration creeping like a poison vine up the side of the neck and toward the collarbone.
"Gods above," Faust whispered, his physician's mind racing. He reached out, his cool fingers pressing against the edges of the necrotic flesh. "How are you even standing, let alone throwing silver rings? By all laws of anatomy, this arm should be a dead weight. The nerves should be silent, the muscles liquefied."
Mateus gritted his teeth, his face pale under the torchlight.
"It... it listens to me. Mostly."
"It shouldn't," Faust said grimly. "If these dead cells reach the spinal column, if the putrefaction touches the base of your brain... I'll be forced to amputate everything up to your jawline just to keep your heart beating. And even then, you'd be a head on a platter. If a proper surgery isn't performed soon, you'll be in the ground before the first snow of autumn. Six months, Mateus. Maybe less."
A heavy silence fell over the tent, broken only by a low, gravelly voice from the darkest corner.
"Can you truly do it, Doctor? Can you save my son's life?"
Faust looked up as a man stepped into the flickering light. He was older, his face etched with the lines of a hard life, but he carried himself with the unmistakable ghost of European nobility—straight-backed despite his worn clothes.
"Father!" Lola snapped, her hand flying to the hilt of her rapier. "I told you. I told you months ago in Lisbon that we shouldn't have delayed. You insisted the 'old ways' would heal him."
The man, Don Francisco, ignored his daughter, his eyes locked on Faust.
"I cannot do it here," Faust said, his voice dropping into the cold, clinical tone of the Aalborg hospital. "New Netherland is a swamp of bacteria and filth. I require a sterile place, specialized scalpels of Damascus steel, and spirits of wine pure enough to burn the infection out before it takes hold. If I open that shoulder here, the survival rate is exactly zero percent."
He reached into his leather satchel and pulled out two small glass vials.
"For now, he must drink these. A decoction of Chasteberry and Camphor, mixed with a tincture of Willow Bark and Monk's Pepper."
Faust looked at Mateus, a sudden, mischievous glint in his eye.
"It will stop the spread and dull the pain. But I should warn you, Mateus... these herbs are what the monks use to keep their vows. It will protect your life, but it will absolutely murder your... 'dignity.' For the next few months, your interest in the fairer sex will be about as active as a tombstone."
Mateus's eyes widened, his face flushing a deep red. Lola let out a sudden, sharp peal of laughter, and even Don Francisco's grim mouth twitched into a dry chuckle.
"A small price to pay for a head that stays attached to your shoulders, brother," Lola teased, poking him in the ribs.
Faust's expression turned serious again. "I am leaving for Europe in a week. I have a ship chartered for the Dutch Republic, and from there, I go to a private charity clinic I maintain. If you wish for him to live, come with me. I will perform the surgery myself."
Lola's face lit up with a rare, genuine joy, but Don Francisco's expression clouded. He looked down at his boots, his hands trembling slightly.
"Doctor... we are ex-aristocrats. We have enough for bread and passage, but the cost of such a surgery, of your time..."
Faust waved a hand dismissively, his gaze shifting to Mateus, who was still looking mournfully at the medicine vial.
"I have enough gold to buy this entire settlement and pave the streets in silver," Faust said, his voice quiet. "I don't want your money. I want a trade."
He stepped toward Mateus, his eyes reflecting the firelight. "Tonight, watching those children... I realized I don't know how to create wonder. I don't know how to make the impossible look easy."
Faust smiled, a look that was both hungry and humble.
"Teach me. Teach me the sleight of hand, the misdirection, the secrets of your stagecraft. Give me the magic, and I will give you back your arm."