Page 8 of Malady
“No.”
“There is nobody here but me, and I am not—” My thigh spasms, and the rest of the sentence comes out as a hiss. “—sick. Not with plague, at any rate.”
He continues walking. “This mask is not for the sickness.”
“Then what’s it for?”
His silence would have me clenching my fists if my fingers weren’t already half-numb with cold.
“Very well,” I say, pulling my cloak tight beneath my chin. “Be mysterious. Keep your face, your history, and whatever you may or may not think about ale. We shall do the rest of this road in silence, and I hope you enjoy every mile of it.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a kindness.”
For the next half mile, I try shortening my stride, then lengthening it, then putting more weight on the other leg, but that only leaves me swaying like a drunk. By the time I find my balance, Iscairn is right in front of me, eclipsing the road from my view.
“Sit down,” he says, gesturing to the crumbling stone wall lining the lane.
I lack the breath to argue, so I lower myself onto the wall, immediately regretting it when the cold stone bites straight through my skirts and into my arse.
He crouches in front of me, his cloak settling into the roadside muck. “Where does it hurt?”
I chew the inside of my cheek. There’s not a cat in hell’s chance I’m letting another physician get his hands on this leg, no matter how competent he might be.
“It’s only a cramp,” I lie. “My boots were chosen for standing behind an apothecary counter, not crossing half of England on foot.”
“Allow me to examine it.”
When his gloved hand moves towards me, I haul my leg right out of his reach. “No. It’s an old complaint. It flares. It passes. It’s fine.”
For a moment, he says nothing. Then he turns his back to me and sinks onto one knee.
“Get on,” he says.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You cannot walk another five minutes on that leg, and I have no intention of spending the night beside this wall. Get on.”
I stare at his back, then at the miserable stretch of road still waiting ahead.
Surely he cannot mean—
“You want me to climb onto your back?”
“Yes. Mount me.”
I blink hard. “Mount you?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him for a long, mutinous moment. Then, with a sigh, I limp forward and brace one hand against his shoulder.
“This is absurd. If you drop me, I shall haunt you with such vicious persistence that the pestilence itself will seem like a holiday.”
“I believe you. Now, mount.”
Iscairn catches me beneath the thighs before I can go backwards and rises, hauling me up with him as though I weigh no more than the satchel on his shoulder.
