Page 111 of Malady

Before he can catch my sleeve, I shove away from the wall.

I pull my hood over my hair and tug it low enough to shadow my face, then draw the sleeves of my shift down over my blackened fingers and clasp my hands against my chest.

God knows I've spent enough years watching Gideon play the righteous parish priest. If my bastard brother taught me anything, it's how to make people believe the Lord Himself has sent you to tell them what to do.

With that, I cross the straw-covered street and knock on the door. The little girl sitting beside the steps looks up from her apron, her swollen eyes widening at the sight of me, then even further when she notices Iscairn looming behind me in his black cloak and bone mask. She draws her knees to her chest with a frightened whimper.

“Hush now, child,” I tell her, adopting the calm, solemn voice I've heard Gideon use a thousand times. “The Lord has heard thy household's weeping.”

The bolt scrapes back, and the door creaks open to reveal a thin, haggard woman with flour on her apron and eyes swollen from crying. She opens her mouth, but the moment she spots Iscairn's bone beak over my shoulder, her face drains of colour and she reaches to slam the door.

I wedge the toe of my boot straight into the jamb.

“Peace be unto this house, good sister,” I announce as I step forward, my hands still folded piously over my starving ribs. “I am Sister Ophelia, of the… Sisters of Saint Jude—yes—and this is the… reverend physician sent by the diocese. We have heard the tolling of the passing bell, and we are come to attend the final agony.”

The woman trembles, her eyes darting between my hood and Iscairn. “The… the physician? But Father Thomas has already given the unction⁠—”

“Father Thomas has seen to the spirit, but the flesh is another matter, sister,” I interrupt, leaning towards her. “The foul humours are already rising from his breast, and if they're allowed to spread, you'll have more than one death to mourn beneath this roof. Not a soul is to enter as we work, do you understand? Unless you'd rather find yourself burying your daughter by Sunday, I suggest you let us get on with what the Lord has sent us here to do.”

Her gaze darts from my hooded eyes to the terrifying, towering shape of Iscairn looming on the threshold, and she crosses herself three times.

“The Lord preserve us,” she babbles, stepping back into the passage so fast she nearly trips over a pair of wooden clogs. “Aye, aye, of course! Come in, Sister, come in! Mercy upon us, don't let it take the girl!”

“The Lord provides,” I declare solemnly, stepping over the threshold and making a rather exaggerated sign of the cross. “May He bless this house and all who dwell within it, and grant His mercy to those in need.”

Gideon would be beside himself if he could hear me.

“May His holy light shine upon these walls, and may all who seek His mercy find comfort beneath His everlasting grace.” I raise my hand again, tracing another cross over the doorway. “In sickness and in sorrow, in life and in death, may the Lord watch over this household and deliver its good Christian souls from all wickedness and⁠—”

Iscairn catches my wrist before I can finish, his long fingers closing gently around mine as he lowers my hand.

“You are overdoing it,” he murmurs, his beak nearly brushing my ear.

I pull my wrist free and glare at him beneath my hood. If he thinks he could've done better with his fancy Fellmarsh parchment whilst my skeleton is starving, he's welcome to have a go next time.

The woman is already hurrying down the passage, calling for her aunt and the scullery lad to get outside. A hurried exchange follows, along with the scrape of boots across the floorboards, and by the time she's ushered them both through the front door, Iscairn and I are standing alone at the foot of a crooked staircase.

“Up here, Sister,” she says, gathering her skirts as she starts to climb.

I follow her up the narrow steps, one hand trailing along the bannister, whilst she continues telling me how carefully she's followed my instructions. It's only when we reach the landing that she falls quiet, turning towards me with her swollen eyes filling again.

“Please, Sister,” she whispers. “Don't let him suffer.”

“He is in the hands of the Almighty,” I assure her, waiting until she's disappeared down the stairs before pushing open the bedchamber door.

The smell is familiar enough, unfortunately. Sour vinegar, stale urine and bed linen that hasn't been changed in days, with the faint, sickly sweetness of a body that's giving up on itself. The old man lies on a narrow rope bed against the far wall, his thin face turned towards the rafters and his mouth hanging slightly open. Hardly any flesh remains on his bones, and the skin around his eyes has sunk so deeply that they seem almost lost beneath his brow. He doesn't stir when we enter, nor when Iscairn bolts the door, though I can hear the awful wet rattle of his breathing from clear across the room.

I've heard that sound more times than I care to remember, but as I take a few steps towards the bed, I stop.

Only minutes ago, I'd been calling on the Almighty with enough enthusiasm to make Gideon weep. Now there's an old man dying in front of me, and I've come to his bedside without the faintest intention of trying to save him.

Iscairn sets his satchel beside the door and unfastens his mask, easing the leather ties from beneath his hair before laying it aside. He comes to stand beside me, resting a hand against the small of my back without urging me any closer.

My mouth waters, and I swallow hard, disgusted with myself for it.

Iscairn gently covers my hand with his. “He is very near the end, Ophelia,” he murmurs. “You need not be afraid of causing him further suffering.”

I know that. I've heard enough death rattles to recognise when a pair of lungs has nearly finished its work, and the old man's breathing is so wet and shallow that I doubt he'll see another hour.