Page 121 of Malady

He does not know where we are.

Gideon knows roads. Gideon knows churches. Gideon knows how to make people listen when he puts on that wounded, righteous voice of his and tells them he is only trying to save his sister from whatever wickedness has got its claws into her. If he went from parish to parish with my name in his mouth and fire in his eyes, plenty would help him. Plenty who would think themselves godly for doing it.

He does not know where we are.

I’ve spent enough of my life looking over my shoulder for my brother. I have measured rooms by their nearest exits, weighed every word before it reached him, watched his moods gather and break like weather over the moor. I am not doing it here. Not today. Not in the middle of York with a basket full of linen and herbs and a perfectly lovely morning waiting to be ruined by absolutely anything else.

Gideon is far away.

Gideon does not know where we are.

I shift the basket higher on my arm and turn towards the street that will take me home, back to the dispensary, back to Iscairn, back to a life that’s beginning to actually feel like mine.

Then a deep laugh bubbles up behind me and my head whips around. But the man’s blond, his eyes green—not a cassock in sight.

Pull yourself together, Ophelia.

As the crowd thins and I leave the market behind, another sound drifts towards my ear from around a puddled corner. Several sounds actually.

“Ring-a-ring o' roses, a pocket full of posies…”

I glance around the corner, where a little gathering of children have joined hands in the space beside a public well. There are six of them, ranging from a girl who looks barely old enough to walk to a lanky boy whose knees are poking through his breeches. They're skipping around in a circle, singing at the top of their lungs while an older woman watches from a nearby doorstep with a basket of mending in her lap.

“A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all fall down!”

And down they go.

Every last one of them collapses into the dirt, shrieking with laughter as the smallest girl lands squarely on her brother's stomach. He lets out an enormous oof, which only makes the others laugh harder, and in less than a blink they scramble to their feet to argue over who fell first.

A smile tugs at my lips. How long has it been since I've watched children playing without somebody worrying about whether they ought to be outdoors? They really should be inside—I still believe that. They're filthy, half of them have holes in their clothes, and I daresay their poor mothers will have something to say about the state of them when they get home, but they're alive. They're healthy enough to spend their morning making a nuisance of themselves, and nobody is chasing after them with a spoonful of poppy or checking their necks for swellings.

Gideon and I used to play something like that when we were little, though I can't for the life of me remember the words to our song. Something about a farmer losing his geese, I think. We'd hold hands and spin around Mother's garden until one of us got dizzy and fell over, usually taking the other down with them. Gideon was particularly fond of pretending he'd been struck dead, lying flat on his back with his tongue hanging out until I laughed so hard I couldn’t stand.

With a sigh, I hoist my basket up and head back towards the inn, where a painted sign swings from an iron bracket above the door, creaking in the wind.

The Cock and Magpie.

I shoulder it open and step into the familiar warmth of the common room. The place is already busy, though I can't imagine how half these men have found the time to get drunk before noon. A fiddler is playing beside the hearth, almost drowned out by a group of gentlemen singing along at the top of their lungs, while Meg hurries between the tables with her arms full of empty tankards.

“Miss Ophelia!”

Oh, here we go.

Master Wilkes waves at me from the hearth, tipping ale into the lap of the poor fellow beside him.

“Morning, Master Wilkes!” I call, squeezing between two benches as I make my way towards the back of the room.

“Tha'll be pleased to know I'm feelin' much better!”

“Wonderful! Then perhaps you'll finally stop coming upstairs every morning to tell me you're dying.”

His companions burst into laughter, and I leave him to defend himself as I make my way towards the stairs, keeping my basket tucked close so I don't knock anybody senseless. Getting through the common room without somebody stopping me for a chat is bloody impossible, and I've barely passed the hearth before Mrs Atkinson catches me to tell me how wonderfully her husband's back has improved since I gave him that salve. By the time I've heard all about it and managed to excuse myself, Meg has spotted me from behind the counter.

“Been shopping again, love?” she calls, eyeing the basket.

“Unfortunately. Do you know how much they're charging for honey these days?”

“More than they're charging for ale, I hope.”