Page 53 of Malady

“It is a city far to the east, a few days from Jerusalem,” he says. “A fascinating place, though I found the summers rather too warm for my constitution. I eventually retreated to a little village in the Alps to cool off for a decade or two.”

I take a cautious sip and immediately wish I had not, because it’s bloody lovely.

I’ve never even seen cardamom. I’ve heard of it, certainly, usually from merchants asking sums of money that could keep my shop stocked in feverfew for a month, but until five minutes ago it belonged in the same part of my mind as silk and elephants: things that exist somewhere very far away and have absolutely nothing to do with me.

I’ve lived in Beswick my entire life, and apart from the neighbouring villages and the occasional journey into the city, I know very little of the world beyond it.

I take another sip, my eyes darting to the empty space on the counter. “Are you not pouring one for yourself?”

I want him to take off that wretched beak. If I’m to share my shop with him, I need to know what is underneath it. A rotting jaw? Fangs? A second, smaller beak?

“I prefer to drink without an audience,” he replies, picking up his rag again. “If I remove this mask, you will immediately begin counting my teeth to see if I have too many.”

“I am an apothecary. I count teeth routinely.”

“You are hoping for tusks.”

“I am hoping for a standard human chin. Though if you do have tusks, I would prefer to know beforehand so I don’t accidentally impale myself.”

“I possess a perfectly adequate chin, Ophelia Harrow, and exactly thirty-two teeth.”

“Prove it. Have some tea.”

“Absolutely not. You are still within reach of an iron poker, and I have no intention of discovering which small imperfection in my face convinces you to use it.”

“It’s a cane.”

“So you keep insisting. Drink your brew.”

A snort escapes me before I can stop it, and I hide the rest behind the cup as I take another mouthful. Bloody man. The cardamom is warmer now, the honey settled properly through it, and for several seconds I let myself enjoy both, despite the deeply irritating creature responsible for making it.

“Well.” I wrap both hands around the clay, stealing what warmth remains. “I am delighted your extensive wandering has finally produced something useful, but none of this explains why you are loitering in my apothecary before dawn. Have you come to fetch me for a death?”

“No. Those are private. But I have been called to High Ridge Cottage.”

I pause with the cup half-raised. “Luke Callow? He’s a mile uphill in the snow. If he’s sent for us before daybreak, his sheep have either sprouted wings or he’s finally done something fatal with his scythe.”

“The daughter ran down the track not too long ago,” he replies, tightening the buckles on his satchel. “It is not the scythe. The old fool caught his forearm in a rusted pair of spring-shears three days ago and decided prayer was a suitable substitute for boiling water. In her own words, the daughter says the arm has turned the colour of a spoiled liver and smells like a thousand donkeys’ arses.”

I set the cup down. “How far has the blackening spread?”

“To the elbow, apparently.”

I’m already moving. “Then we’ll need the saw, vinegar, fresh hog’s lard, and every scrap of clean linen I have left. Honey too. Lots of it.”

“It is already packed.”

I follow his thumb towards the door. My willow basket is sitting beside it. Of course it is. He’s even gone as far as to wrap the saw in linen so the teeth don’t catch the weave, and one look inside shows the vinegar wedged upright beside the lard, bandages stuffed around both to stop them knocking together, with every bloody thing I’d been about to fetch already packed amongst them.

I fear I should be more alarmed that a creature who eats souls has let himself into my shop before dawn, but he’s already packed everything we’ll need to cut off a man’s arm, and there’s a lovely warm cup of tea waiting for me. Doctor Taylor never offered half as much assistance without making certain I understood what a privilege it was to be allowed in the room.

Perhaps having a three-hundred-year-old soul-eater loitering about the apothecary isn’t the worst arrangement in the world, provided he keeps those enormous boots out of my bedchamber.

At this rate, I shall become spoiled.

I gulp down the rest of the tea and set the cup on the counter.

“Right, then.” I reach for my cloak. “Let’s go and cut off a man’s arm.”