“And that, Miss Sinnett, is why we started the Companions to the Death.”
 “For artists,” Byron said, half-mocking with a self-important tone.
 “For the future,” Marie-Anne corrected. “To preserve the greatest minds of a generation. Of every generation. To create a cohort with the talent and ability to steer the future of culture and politics for the better.” […]
 Hazel's eye was drawn to Marie-Anne's missing pinkie finger. “The privilege of immortality,” she said, “requires sacrifice.”
 Byron waggled his own four-fingered hand at Hazel. “An initiation ritual.” […]
 Marie-Anne Lavoisier refilled Hazel's wineglass. “As you've gleaned, Miss Sinnett, our numbers are very few. And entrance to our little social club remains incredibly exclusive. Only those who we truly feel will contribute to creating positive change in the world are allowed past our threshold and into our elite circle. Immortality is a gift. The most precious commodity, desperately sought by kings and emperors in vain. But one tiny consequence is the slight tendency to sustain injuries over a long life.”
 She lifted her right hand, and Hazel noticed that several of the fingers had stitching around the base. Fallen off and sewn back on. […]
 Byron pulled off a boot and sock and wiggled a foot gone gray, poorly reattached at the ankle. It was swollen and dead. “I'm still limping!” he complained. “People are saying I have a clubfoot.”
 “It is not my fault!” Mrs. Thire cried. “I'm a seamstress, not a surgeon.”[…]
 Marie-Anne nodded. “It's a very particular skill, and challenging: the ability to reattach flesh, cauterize veins, minimize scarring, maintain blood flow. You possess rare gifts, Miss Sinnett. We think you can help us, and we think we can help you. More than we already have, I mean.”
 “What do you mean?” Hazel said.
 “The Companions to the Death are at the heart of London court and society. It was we who heard the rumors about you, and suggested to the Prince Regent that perhaps his daughter might prefer to be treated by a young, female surgeon close to her age. That's what we do,” Marie-Anne said. “Influence things. Make them better. Move things forward.”
 “Why me?” Hazel whispered.
 “You're famous,” Byron said, as if it were obvious. “Only female surgeon in Britain.”
 Marie-Anne gave him a stern look. “You, Miss Sinnett, are a woman out of time. Imagine what the world will be for a woman in fifty years. In a hundred. Women will be celebrated as surgeons, not working in scandal, alone. A woman won't need to marry to have a place to live, to be able to participate in society.” […]
 “We are offering you, Miss Sinnett, a rare invitation to join us. Help us with our minor repairs. Live forever exactly the way you were meant to live.”
 “Are we going to do the finger now?” Byron asked. “Or later? I don't want to be put off my appetite, and I'm worried the blood spatter will stain these shoes. I'll leave.”
 “Go upstairs if you wish, George,” Marie-Anne said. “Sit in the laboratory. No need for you to make such a fuss.” From a pocket swung around the hip of her skirt, she removed a long knife with a black handle. It glistened in the candlelight. “Would you like a glass of wine before we begin, Hazel?”
 The buzzing in Hazel's ears was back. “No.”
 “Good. We'll be quick, then. Antoine, be a dear and fetch the Tincture from upstairs, love?”
 “No!” Hazel said louder than she meant. “I don't want to join your… I mean, I don't want to be immortal.”
 Silence. And then Byron erupted in laughter.
 “Whyever,” Marie-Anne said, “not?” Her face was still a mask, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth was threatening to become a frown.
 Hazel didn't know if it was cowardice or prudence; perhaps it didn't matter. But the thought of taking the Tincture – of living forever – gave her the sensation of standing on a rocky ledge atop a very, very tall cliff and being told to jump.
 Hazel's mouth had gone dry, and she felt the room's eyeballs on her. “I don't want to live forever.” No one said anything, and so Hazel continued. “It's too… permanent.”
 “The only thing that's permanent is death,” Voltaire said. “Life changes constantly.”
 “I would get bored. I know I would. Eventually,” Hazel said.
 Benjamin Banneker smiled reassuringly. “Bored? Of travel and reading? Of science and discovery? A dullard might get bored with infinite time, but I do seriously doubt that boredom would be possible for someone like you, if you'll forgive the presumptuousness.”
 “I don't want to watch the people I love die.”
 “You will always have to watch people you love die,” Marie-Anne said. “Do you think mortality protects you from that?” The knife was sharp; Hazel saw the light flicker off its edge.
 “Can I think about it?” Hazel asked quietly.
 Byron guffawed. “No! We are giving you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that anyone in London would cut off their left hand for” – “Left pinkie at least,” Voltaire muttered – and you're dallying about?”
 “Yes,” Marie-Anne said. “You can think about it.”