Page 13 of Malady

Of bloody course.

Alice is twenty-two years old. Her husband’s father went into the ground four days ago, and when a man in a cassock stood outside her door and promised that God had made her safe, she believed him. Most of Beswick would have done the same.

“You did what Gideon told you,” I say. “But from this moment onward, you listen to the doctor and me. If either of you worsens, you shout from the window until someone hears. Doctor Iscairn will come every day whether you send for him or not, so you will never need to cross that threshold to fetch us again.”

She wipes her eyes and sniffles. “I understand, Miss Ophelia.”

By the time we reach the churchyard, I’ve imagined seven versions of the conversation awaiting me. In four, Gideon apologises immediately. In two, I strike him with the basket. In the seventh, he attempts to quote scripture, and I bury him beneath the altar.

I’m still deciding which would be most satisfying when Iscairn slows beside me at the bottom of the church steps.

“I will wait here,” he says.

“You will do no such thing. You are the physician. Come inside and tell him precisely how idiotic he is.”

“No.”

I march up the steps and lean through the open doorway to peer inside.

“There are two people in here,” I call over my shoulder. “Gideon, who is the entire reason we have come, and Leon, who once hid behind a font because Widow Pike raised her voice at him. And if it’s your cloak that troubles you, take it off. You can leave it out here with my basket.”

When no response comes, I look back. Iscairn is standing stock-still at the foot of the steps, his mask fixed on the open doors.

“I would rather not,” he says after a moment. “You may find me here when you are finished.”

Of course I may.

With a huff, I set the basket down and stalk inside before I waste another minute arguing with a man who has apparently decided staying out of things is a perfectly respectable medical practice.

The doors groan shut behind me, and I storm across the cold flagstones. Gideon looks up from his ledger as I approach, while Brother Leon takes one glance at my face, hastily gathers his papers and disappears into the vestry with remarkable speed.

Coward.

Gideon closes the ledger slowly. “Ophi. How lovely to see you.”

I plant myself in front of him. “David Fletcher is riddled with buboes, and a house I quarantined three days ago was standing open as though I had merely suggested they might enjoy a little privacy. Would you care to explain why?”

Gideon’s face twists. “I did what I believed was merciful. I prayed with them and judged that keeping a grieving family shut inside⁠—”

“Merciful?” I snap, loud enough to send a stray pigeon fluttering from the rafters. “David screamed until his voice gave out as Iscairn cut three swellings from him, and Alice was sick through her own window. But thank God you spared them the cruelty of remaining inside their cottage for another fortnight.”

“I could not have known he would become ill.”

“No, you could not.” I step closer. “Which examination did you perform, Gideon? Did you feel beneath their jaws or at the groin? Did you count their pulses? Ask whether either of them had aches, or if they were developing sweats?”

His mouth stays clamped shut. My brother may know his scripture, but when it comes to remedies and bodies, he doesn’t know his arse from his elbow.

“I was gone for less than one day, and in that time you went to a sealed house and opened it. Were you waiting until I was gone? Is that what it was? For a man who knows my medicine was the only thing holding this parish together, undermining me the moment I left was remarkably stupid, even for you.”

His hand flattens over the ledger. “It would serve you well to remember that you are a woman, I am a man, and you are standing in the house of God calling a Brother of the Church stupid.”

I grit my teeth, glance towards the crucifix above his shoulder, and make a hurried sign of the cross. “Forgive me, Father. It was remarkably foolish of him.”

The corner of Gideon’s mouth twitches, though he has the good sense to smother it quickly. “I am sorry, Ophi. Tell me what must be done now.”

I should like to see him crawl the length of the nave on his knees and confess, loudly enough for every village within five miles to hear, that his younger sister has been right all along.

“The house is sealed again, and it stays sealed. No quarantine in this parish is lifted without Iscairn’s word or mine.” I hold his gaze. “Not yours. Not even God’s, unless He intends to come down and examine the sick Himself. Ours. And tonight, at compline, you will stand before the parish and tell them such.”