Page 33 of Malady

“William, take your son,” Iscairn says, and when Billy only stares at him, still looking rather dazed by the news, he adds, “The child, Mercer.”

Billy finally bends to prise the child from Iscairn’s leg, drawing an indignant howl from the boy, while Nell twists beside me with another cramp.

“The ginger,” Iscairn says. “Before she makes herself sick again.”

I turn back to the table and take up the pestle, grinding the root into the bottom of the mortar whilst Billy attempts to soothe his son behind me. The child is having none of it. By the time I’ve scraped the ginger into a cup and reached for the kettle, his screaming has become impressive enough that I briefly consider whether Iscairn’s lesson on the hyoid might have wider applications. But the noise from the bed has stopped. I glance back. Nell’s lying flat against the pillows, the hand that had been twisted into the sheets resting loose beside her. Iscairn is bent over her with one gloved palm against her brow, and as he straightens, something blue flickers faintly between his fingers and disappears beneath the black leather.

I stop with the kettle halfway to the cup.

No.

I know that blue.

The thing. He did the thing.

No. He didn’t do the thing.

She’s still breathing; she just isn’t vomiting her arsehole out through her mouth now, and she looks like she could sleep ‘til spring.

Well. That rather complicates things.

I lower my eyes to the table before Iscairn can turn and catch me staring. Nothing happened. I saw nothing. I am simply an apothecary gathering her herbs while the physician beside me has done something impossible to a woman who, importantly, remains very much alive.

“She will sleep now,” Iscairn says, smoothing the leather over his fingers. “There are points about the head and neck where a little pressure will hasten what exhaustion has already begun. Her body needed rest. I merely persuaded it.”

Liar.

“Good,” I reply, a fraction too quickly. I scrape the remaining ginger into a square of linen and pull the knot tight, desperate to do something with my hands. “When she wakes, steep this in hot water,” I tell Billy. “It will settle the sickness enough for her to keep a little broth down.”

Billy stays planted by the hearth, the little boy balanced on his hip. He looks from the small bundle in my hand to his sleeping wife, his thick brow drawing into a scowl. The blind terror of ten minutes ago has already evaporated, making comfortable room for his usual sneer.

“That it?” he asks.

I pause with one hand on the handle of my basket. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

“It’s a bit o’ root.” His lip curls in disgust. “Can tha not actually fix it?”

I look at his clammy, bald head, then to Nell, who’s finally managed to find a few minutes of peace. Poor woman.

“I can,” I say. “If you would like the pregnancy fixed, I can mix her something to end it. Though I suspect that’s not quite what you meant.”

The colour drains straight from his face, his mouth hanging open.

“A strong decoction of pennyroyal and savin would serve best,” Iscairn observes from the foot of the bed. “Followed by a measure of poppy tincture to manage the pain once the expulsion begins. Tell me, Ophelia Harrow, do you cultivate your own savin, or must you trade for the dried leaves?”

I meet his gaze. “I keep a bush in my garden. It survives the frost quite well.”

“Excellent,” Iscairn says, dipping his pale beak in a small nod. “Then we could have the womb emptied by supper.”

Billy makes a faint, strangled sound in the back of his throat. He clutches the toddler tighter to his hip, his eyes darting wildly between the towering physician and the spinster he so readily hates.

“No,” Billy chokes out, taking a step backwards. “No, no. Keep it in ‘er.”

“You are certain?” Iscairn asks. “You seemed quite dissatisfied with the ginger.”

“T’ginger is fine!” he squeaks.

The yellow door has barely shut behind us before I laugh. I try to swallow it—I really do. But that only makes it worse, and by the time we’ve made it a few yards down Butter Lane, I have one hand over my mouth and tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.