Page 59 of Malady

The pail jerks from his grip as I haul the rope upward, sloshing the ditch-water over his upturned face. He scrabbles after it with a hoarse cry, but the tin bucket clatters up the stone out of reach, taking the bread with it.

"Wait! No! Please!"

I flick the core away into the dark, drop the pail onto the grass, and reach for my mask, reluctant to lose the cold air against my skin but even less inclined to stand here breathing William in until I do something I cannot do. So I fit the mask back over my face and tighten the bindings at the nape of my neck.

“You have sat in the dark for four nights,” I say, running a hand over the bony beak. “In all that time, you have wept for your fractured bone and the perceived injustice of your confinement. Yet not once have you wept for Nell. You have not wondered how your children will eat with their father gone, nor spared a moment’s thought for the bruises currently fading upon your wife’s arm. And certainly none for the woman you left to drown in this very cistern.”

I reach for my hat and settle it low over my brow.

“You will sit there and consider your own wretched existence. Do try to survive the night, William. I should hate for you to expire before I have decided what to do with you.” I collect my satchel from the grass, slinging the leather strap over my shoulder, then turn my back on the well and take my first step towards the village.

“She’s a cripple!” William screams. “A miserable, limping old maid! Tha thinks she’s summat precious? No man wants 'er! No man ever will! She’ll rot all on 'er own in that shop, and when she does, tha can’t go laying that on me!”

I leave the well behind without looking back.

Parasite.

A spineless, unremarkable speck of a man who contributes absolutely nothing of value to the earth he walks upon. And yet, it is men like him who break the bones of brilliant women and leave them to carry the limp.

I continue towards Beswick, eager for a bath hot enough to scald the last hour from my skin, followed by clean clothes and a stretch of blessed silence.

By the time the first roofs come into view, the thought has become rather appealing, right up until the sound of chanting carries over the houses and ruins it.

The flagellants.

These particular mortals possess a truly remarkable capacity for noise. One might assume that by the five-hundredth strike of knotted leather against bare flesh, a man would begin to question whether the exercise was achieving anything of value, particularly when the pestilence continues to kill his neighbours with such indifference to the display. Instead, these zealots have concluded that God simply cannot hear them over the wind, and have taken to shrieking their repentance in the dead of night instead.

My policy regarding mankind's desperate attempts at salvation has always been one of strict non-interference. I leave them to their bloody rituals and conserve my essence for things of actual consequence. Tonight, however, there is an apothecary a few lanes over who is finally sleeping, and she must remain undisturbed.

I step into the deep shadow beside the churchyard wall and lift one gloved hand towards the torchlight.

Frost races over the cobbles and whitens the lower stones of the church, catching the flagellants mid-motion as the wet leather stiffens in their hands. Their miserable racket gives way to startled gasps as the cold takes hold, and one by one, they sag where they kneel, their heads lolling before they finally pitch forward onto the frozen cobbles. Within moments, the whole group lies sprawled face-down across the churchyard, their whips scattered around them and the blood along their backs congealing.

“Three hours of peace,” I murmur, adjusting the brim of my hat. “Saint Augustine himself could not have improved upon it.”

I tuck my hands behind my back and leave them where they have fallen, making my way through the mercifully quiet lanes towards the cottage, where a hot bath and a firmly closed door suddenly seem like the finest things in creation.

15

OPHELIA

By the time I manage to drop onto the stool, I’m sweating like a nun in a cucumber patch, red-faced, damp beneath the collar, and locked in a vicious struggle with my left boot, which has been clinging to my foot for so long that I’m beginning to suspect it intends to be buried with me.

“Come off, you bastard.”

I wrench it again, putting my whole weight behind the effort until my shoulders burn and the stool scrapes across the floorboards.

Nothing.

I glare over my raised knee at the back of Iscairn’s hat. He’s calmly measuring coltsfoot into one of my paper packets while I sit here fighting for possession of my own feet.

Another tug nearly sends me backwards off the stool, and he finally turns. “If you pull any harder, you may dislocate your ankle. Allow me.”

I scowl up at him. “Touch this boot, and I’ll use it to cave your teeth in. You’ve taken enough liberties with my person already to last a lifetime.”

Calmly, he folds the paper around the coltsfoot. “You were unable to walk.”

“I couldn’t give two shakes of a rat’s arse! What did I tell you about using your soulglimmer on me? I am not a lamp, Iscairn. You cannot simply pour the stuff into me whenever I begin to flicker.”