Page 113 of Malady

My hand flies to the bedframe as the hollow beneath my ribs gives a sudden, painful lurch. For one awful second, the hunger seems to grow worse, drawing at the light with such force that I can hardly control my breathing. The threads come faster, unwinding from the old man's chest and pouring into me until there's barely any space between his body and mine that isn't filled with blue.

I try to slow down, but my body has other ideas.

The soul is delicious. There's no other word for it. The first rush slips across my tongue, warm and wonderfully sweet, before settling beneath my breastbone and filling the hollow ache that has been gnawing at me since Addingham. Such glorious relief washes through me that my shoulders sag, and I draw in another mouthful, feeling it spread through my chest and down into my belly. Even my blackened fingertips begin to tingle.

And still it comes.

I draw another breath, deeper this time, and a shudder runs through me as the last of my hunger gives way to something altogether more pleasurable. The awful pressure behind my eyes dissolves, bringing everything around me into such startling focus that I can make out the tiniest splinters in the floorboards, whilst the old man's faint, rattling breaths carry clearly above the rustle of his sheets.

My knees tremble as another glorious rush pours into me, and I grip the bedframe to keep myself upright. The pleasure is almost unbearable now, unfurling low in my belly and spreading through my limbs until my muscles grow weak beneath it. A helpless little sound escapes my throat, and I lean closer, drawing in another strand before it can drift away.

I ought to stop. The hunger is gone, and there’s already more of him inside me than I could possibly need, but each breath brings another exquisite surge that leaves me trembling against the bed. I can feel it all the way down to my toes, this wonderful, impossible fullness, and when the final threads rise from his chest, thin and delicate as spun wool, I part my lips eagerly to receive them.

The last of the blue slips down my throat, sending one final shiver through me before settling deep beneath my ribs.

For a moment, I remain bent over him, my mouth still open, waiting for something more.

But there’s nothing left.

I draw back slowly, loosening my grip on the bedframe as the trembling in my legs subsides.

No more struggling for breath. No more wet rattling from his lungs. His face has gone still, and I know, without reaching for his wrist, that there won't be another breath.

The thin membranes slide away from my eyes, taking the blue light with them, and the bedchamber returns to its miserable gloom. The old man lies still beneath his blankets, his grey hair damp against the pillow, and the stink of stale urine hangs in the air.

But the hunger is gone, and in its place… warmth.

“Oh, thank God,” I say, pressing a hand to my belly. “I was beginning to think I'd spend the rest of eternity feeling like I hadn't eaten in a fortnight.”

I turn to Iscairn, who’s still standing on the other side of the bed, his head tilted slightly.

“What? I've been bloody miserable for days. Allow me a little enjoyment now that it's over.”

He chuckles quietly, and I can’t help smiling, though the sight of the old man lying peacefully beneath his sheets soon brings my attention back to what has happened. It's a peculiar thing, feeling so wonderfully well when somebody has just died beside me, and I look down at him for a while before turning back to Iscairn.

“Do you think we might find a bakery?” I ask, lowering my voice. “I'd quite like something to eat that hasn't belonged to somebody.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “I believe we can manage that, Ophelia Harrow.”

29

DOCTOR ISCAIRN

Another slurred ballad climbs through the floorboards from the taproom below, punctuated now and then by the dull slam of a pewter mug against a table.

The rooms are not, by any fair measure, a proper dispensary. They are two former guest chambers above a York alehouse—the Cock and Magpie—one serving as our shop and the other as our surgery, with a cramped little bedchamber squeezed in behind. Both have sloping floors and shutters that will not close properly.

Half our jars are stacked along the windowsill because the shelf has begun to bow beneath their weight, and the table currently serving as our workbench has been scrubbed down to raw wood, its surface pale and rough beneath her hands.

Still, she has made something of it. Give Ophelia Harrow a cracked basin, a strip of boiled linen and a room full of people determined to die through carelessness, and she will find a way to be irritated and useful in equal measure.

“Stop wriggling, David,” she snaps, nudging the apprentice’s boot with her own. “Look at the rafters.”

The boy jerks his head up and whimpers as she wipes the cut clean.

She has always been efficient in a sickroom, though efficient feels rather a thin word for it. She has the rare talent of making a bleeding man understand that he is, at present, the most inconvenient object in the room, while still doing precisely what is required to keep him alive. They come in red-faced and wailing, convinced their suffering is a matter for everyone within earshot, and within minutes most learn to keep still, answer plainly, and put whatever part of them is bleeding exactly where she tells them to put it.

It is an admirable system.