Page 66 of Malady

OPHELIA

Idreamed about the little brown mole beside Iscairn’s thumb.

Of all the things my sleeping mind might have chosen to torment me with—the face I have never seen, the bone mask, the fact that he occasionally eats the souls of the dying—it settled upon a mole no bigger than a lentil.

The mole.

Fortunately, the morning has been quiet enough to make ignoring myself relatively easy. Mrs Cooper came in for more clove oil, followed by old Davy, whose cough sounds suspiciously like a wasp trapped in his throat, though he insists there’s nothing wrong with him. Nell Mercer stopped by for something to settle her pregnant stomach, and that, mercifully, has been the extent of my troubles.

By Beswick’s present standards, it’s been almost peaceful.

With so little demanding our attention, Iscairn has taken over my mortar at the back of the shop while I work through the shelves, topping up whatever the past week has left running low.

I’m halfway through crumbling a fresh bundle of yarrow into its jar when the bell above the door jingles. Gideon stands just inside the doorway, clutching a lidded clay crock to his chest.

The back of my neck prickles, my shoulders tensing. If he’s here to make me repent again or start screaming about my sins, I may very well set myself alight with the pitch in the corner and be done with it.

He stops short of the counter and thrusts the crock towards me. “We made up a thick barley pottage with leeks and salt pork.”

My eyes flit between him and the pot. “That is… very nice.”

He huffs through his nose. “It’s a peace offering, Ophi. I thought it might improve my chances.”

I take it from him and set it carefully on the counter.

He scrapes the toe of one boot along the edge of the other before clearing his throat. “I should not have done what I did at the church. And when the flagellants left…” He drags a hand over his jaw. “I was frightened. Everything seemed to be coming apart at once, and you were there, and I⁠—”

“Shouted at me.”

“Ophi. When Mum was dying, she made me promise I would look after you.” His thumb worries over his knuckle. “You were so little you could barely climb into your own bed without taking half the blankets down with you, and there I was nodding along as though I had the faintest idea how one went about raising a girl. I think about that promise more often than you know. And lately I cannot help thinking I have made a rather poor job of keeping it.”

A frown tugs at my lips.

Mum is not something we talk about often. Gideon was older when she died, and I’ve always thought it terribly unfair that he had those few extra years with her. He must remember things I’ve long since forgotten, though I’ve never quite had the courage to ask him what.

Some things have stayed with me. Her blue wool dress, and the smell of rosemary in her hair when she bent to kiss me goodnight. She was forever growing herbs beneath the kitchen window, and I would sit beside her while she stripped the leaves from their stems, helping her make little remedies for whichever neighbour had come knocking that morning. She used to call me her little pudding, usually when I’d made a nuisance of myself, and I can almost hear her saying, “Good morning, pudding,” whenever I think of her standing in the kitchen.

And towards the end, when the wasting sickness had kept her in bed so long that even I understood she was never getting out of it again, her thin fingers stroked my cheek as she told me to be brave.

Afterwards, Dad seemed to disappear without ever leaving the house. He still worked and sat beside the hearth each night, but he scarcely spoke, and the house grew quiet around him. No more hymns drifting from the kitchen in the mornings, or anybody singing badly enough to make Gideon complain from the next room.

Mostly, though, there was Gideon. Burning the porridge because he’d forgotten to stir it, then making such a dreadful mess of plaiting my hair that I refused to leave the house until he cut the ribbon out. He checked beneath my bed for monsters, too, and insisted there was nothing to be frightened of, even when I caught him looking the following night.

My throat tightens.

“You have always made terrible pottage, Gid,” I murmur. “But thank you.”

His mouth twitches, and he glances towards the back of the shop. “Doctor Iscairn? Would you like some?”

“No,” Iscairn rumbles.

Gideon shifts his weight. “I could bring fresh bread instead. Or ale—the Brothers tapped a new barrel this morning.” When he’s met with silence, his fingers dig into his cassock. “We are in remarkably good spirits today. The parish is finally showing signs of recovery, thank the Lord, and it feels as though the worst of this trial is finally behind us. We should celebrate.”

The mortar cracks against the workbench, and Iscairn finally turns to face Gideon.

"Good spirits," he repeats.

Gideon’s weak smile vanishes as he takes a half-step back, his heel catching against his cassock. "Yes. The flock... they are finding their hope again."