Chapter 5 - The Protocol of Bone and Iron
By the third week of December, the snow lay four feet deep against the stone walls of the Moretti estate, drifted high by a three-day blizzard that had cut off the secondary roads to McHenry and Woodstock.
The estate became an island of gray stone and black iron, surrounded by a white, roaring wilderness.
Clara’s days took on a strict, unyielding rhythm that had nothing to do with the housemaids’ schedule in the main building.
At five in the morning, she rose, lit the iron stove in the harness room, and prepared Bruno’s morning meal: three pounds of chopped raw horsemeat mixed with dried marrow meal, two tablespoons of cod-liver oil, and the gray anti-inflammatory powder that kept his hind legs from stiffening in the damp cold.
At six, she walked him.
They did not use the heavy leather lead with the iron hook. Clara had found an old piece of four-ply cotton hemp rope in the tack shop, five feet long, soft as old linen, with a simple wooden toggle that slid through a knot without making a sound.
She walked him through the deep snow of the orchard, where the dark, bare branches of the apple trees hung low under the weight of the frost.
Bruno walked at her left heel.
He did not pull. He did not forge ahead. When his left hip pained him on the steep incline near the ice-house, he would slow his pace, his broad shoulder nudging against Clara’s thigh until she paused, letting him rest his leg against the packed snow for half a minute before continuing.
The servants no longer laughed when Clara passed the kitchen windows.
When she walked into the scullery to fetch hot water or fresh towels, the younger housemaids moved out of her way with a strange, hesitant respect—not because they feared Clara, but because through the clear glass of the west door, they could see the massive black dog sitting motionless in the snow, his yellow eyes fixed on the door handle, waiting for her to reappear.
On Thursday morning, the veterinarian returned.
Dr. Hale stood in the high-walled exercise paddock behind the stables, wearing a thick sheepskin coat and holding his black bag.
He watched through his thin spectacles as Clara knelt in the snow beside Bruno, holding his front leg up while she used a small horn scraper to clean the frozen ice-balls from between his dark, leathery pads.
Bruno sat completely still, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, his heavy chin resting lightly on top of Clara’s wool cap while she worked.
“Remarkable,” Hale said, shaking his head. “If I tried to touch his paws two months ago, he would have had my knee off.”
“He has sensitive feet,” Clara said without looking up, using her thumb to smooth a bit of pine-salve into the dog’s cracked pad. “The ice gets between his toes and freezes hard as iron. It hurts him to walk.”
Hale looked over his shoulder toward the low stone wall of the terrace.
Matteo Moretti was standing there alone, dressed in his black cashmere overcoat, smoking a short, dark cigar. The blue smoke from his cigar rose straight up into the still, freezing air.
“How is his lumbar flexion?” Hale called out to Clara.
“Better,” Clara said, standing up and wiping her hands on her apron. “He can lift his hind leg without grunting now. But he needs more meat fat in the evening. The cold is burning through his ribs.”
Hale scribbled something in a small leather notebook. “I’ll order two barrels of suet from the butcher in Elgin.”
He packed his notebook into his bag and walked toward the gate, stopping briefly near Matteo.
“Well?” Matteo asked as Hale approached.
“She’s fixed him,” Hale said simply. “Physically, he’s fifty percent more mobile than he was in October. Psychologically... he isn't the same animal, Mr. Moretti. He isn't a weapon anymore.”
Matteo blew a long ring of blue smoke toward the snow. “What is he?”
Hale looked back across the paddock. Bruno had pushed his nose into Clara’s wool coat pocket, searching for the dried beef scraps she kept there, while Clara laughed and pulled his broad ears between her fingers.
May you like
“He’s her dog,” Hale said. “If you try to take him from her now, you’ll have to shoot him anyway. He won't go back to the lead.”
Matteo didn't answer. He threw his finished cigar into a snowdrift, where it died with a tiny hiss, and walked down the stone steps toward the house.
