He sighed. Shifting in his throne-like chair, the Doctor picked up his tiny china cup and sipped, long and slow. His servant stood in the corner, eyes cast downward.
“Would you like another sweet-” A loud reverberating knock interrupted him, mid sentence.
The native hurried to the gate, opening it a crack, and sticking his head out.
An Indian had come with his little baby, who had been stung by a scorpion. The moment the servant laid eyes on them, he felt a pang of guilt. He was absolutely certain that his master would refuse to treat who was considered dirt by the higher class people like himself. Nevertheless, he told them in the universal old language shared by the natives, that he would convey the message.
As predicted, the revolting man was nearly offended that any of the village people had come to get treated from a doctor of his power. Commanding the servant to tell them to scram, he returned to his solitary soliloquy. He had not had a patient for weeks, and was growing very restless. He did not understand why this was so, for he had everything he could possibly want: a large mansion, fine china, silk, an abundance of money. In fact, he was the wealthiest man in the entire town, except for the King himself. But one thing was surely missing in his life, the one thing he would forever desire…
He was not always rich. There was a time when the doctor had not fine china, but cheap plastic, not tea biscuits, but stone-hard toast, not dressed in silk, but in rags. There was a time when he was just a Somebody, a Nobody to everyone else.
Nathaniel Laurence Clarke. Nobody but he and his older brother William knew of the name. They had no memory of their parents, besides the fact that they both died soon after Nathaniel was born. The boys lived in an orphanage in the gloomy streets of London. Well, both lived on the road much more than they were in the building. It was all they...