Page 38 of Malady

“Rest, Ophelia Harrow,” he says, opening the door and stepping out into the fog. “And use the poppy.”

10

OPHELIA

This is why I avoid poppy.

Not because it tastes like something scraped from the bottom of a medicine chest, nor because Gideon once spent an entire afternoon warning me that too much of it would leave me witless, but because nothing has ever made staying in bed feel quite so reasonable.

Someone has stuffed my skull with sheep’s wool. My tongue is thick, my thoughts are thicker, and beneath the blankets I’m so gloriously warm that even opening my eyes feels unnecessary.

I have no idea what hour it is. I’m not entirely certain I could name the day. I could stay here for the rest of my life.

Beswick can find itself another apothecary. The sick can recover through prayer and optimism, and my stupid, godly brother can explain to whoever next comes hammering at my door that his sister has finally abandoned earthly responsibility in favour of being extraordinarily comfortable.

Unfortunately, there are more immediate things waiting downstairs than my new life of idleness. The shop needs opening, the tinctures need seeing to, and then there are the rounds, which means dragging myself from one end of Beswick to the other alongside⁠—

Iscairn.

Oh… I shoved him. It was not, admittedly, the finest display of manners Beswick has ever seen, and if my father were still alive, he would be appalled that I had done such a thing.

But I had told Iscairn not to touch me, and I did not want the blue.

That ought to count for something.

The blankets stick to the backs of my legs. I wriggle one foot free, kick at them until they slide down towards my knees, then shove the rest away from my chest.

An apology might be the decent thing. A small one—something acknowledging that I need not have put both hands on him, without suggesting he had been innocent in the matter. Except apologies have an unpleasant habit of sounding remarkably like surrender when offered to men who already believe they know what is best for you.

If I tell Iscairn I’m sorry, perhaps he hears you were right. Perhaps he hears you may do it again.

No. I think not.

A log spits softly in the hearth, and I burrow my face deeper into the pillow, letting the crackle of burning pine mingle with the last scraps of sleep still clinging stubbornly to me. The room is wonderfully warm, far warmer than it has any right to be in the middle of winter, and I’m content to lie here and breathe in the woodsmoke.

But as the warmth lulls me into a blissful stupor, a little doubt niggles at the back of my mind.

Last night, I spent the better part of ten minutes coaxing life into a miserable little flame that had already dwindled to embers by the time I crawled into bed. There certainly hadn’t been enough wood left to keep it burning until morning, much less enough to make my chamber feel like midsummer.

Another log shifts against the iron grate, and I turn my head towards the hearth.

I shriek and scramble backwards, tangling both legs in the linens before my spine slams into the wooden bedstead.

“What in God’s name are you doing in my chamber?!”

“Ah. You are awake.” Iscairn turns his masked face towards me. “Good morning, Ophelia Harrow.”

I haul the raggedy blanket up to my chin with both fists and glare at him over it. He’s perched on the little stool beside the hearth, though how he’s managed to fit himself onto it is anyone’s guess. His knees are forced high by the cramped seat, one boot stretched towards the fire, and even sitting down he seems to take up most of the room.

Well. There goes any fleeting, drug-addled intention I had of apologising to the man.

“Get out,” I snap.

“In a moment.”

“Now!” I grope blindly beside the bed, my fingers closing around the wooden cup I drank my tincture from last night, and launch it at him. It strikes his shoulder with a hollow thunk and clatters to the floor.

Iscairn’s beak dips, following it as it rolls beneath the edge of the stool. “Hm.”