Page 80 of Malady

The pads of his bare fingers press against the taut, burning skin in the crease of my groin, working slowly around the swelling until he finds the hard edge buried beneath the flesh. A hiss slips through my teeth when he presses deeper, agony blooming through my body.

“You have time,” he assures me, his fingers moving carefully over the heated flesh. “The skin is still firm, and your breathing is clear. I cannot open it yet without making matters worse, so for now, we must bring down the fever and keep you drinking. Once it softens, I can drain it.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then we shall concern ourselves with that when the time comes. For now, I am encouraged by the fact that you have been arguing with me since you opened your eyes.”

I open my mouth to object, but a great thump comes from downstairs, followed by a voice I would recognise even if I were halfway into the grave.

“Ophelia! Open this door!”

I groan. “Oh, for pox’s sake. What’s he doing?”

“He has been there since sunrise, demanding that I admit him so he can pray over you. Apparently, the Lord has promised to keep the pestilence from his lungs.”

Another thump rattles through the shop, and my brother launches into a particularly fervent prayer about the wickedness festering beneath my roof.

“He’ll never leave,” I mutter.

“He is welcome to remain there as long as he pleases. I have bolted the door and marked the shop for quarantine, so you need not concern yourself with him.” Iscairn moves his hand towards my underarm, carefully feeling for another swelling. “Now, if you would be so kind as to lift your arm.”

I do, wincing when his fingers find a tender lump tucked against my ribs.

From downstairs comes another muffled appeal to the Almighty.

“He’s going to pray himself hoarse.”

“One can only hope.”

“Could we not just fetch Mabel and have her shove the holy pigeons’ arses against them?” I rasp, peeling the hair away from my forehead with the back of my hand. “One beneath each arm, perhaps another between my legs, and we could have the whole thing over with before supper.”

Iscairn’s fingers stop against my skin. “That is not funny.”

“Yes, it is.” A laugh catches in my dry throat, though it comes out sounding rather more like a cough. “An apothecary spends a whole year tending to a parish riddled with pestilence, only to end up dying of the bloody thing in her own bed. Tell me that isn’t funny.”

His hand resumes its careful search beneath my arm, though his shoulders have gone rigid.

“You’ll have to put it in your ledger,” I continue, staring up at the beams. “Ophelia Harrow. Knew exactly how everyone else ought to be treated. Died anyway.” I catch my bottom lip between my teeth. “No, that makes me sound unbearable, actually.”

“Ophelia.”

“Perhaps spent most of her life being correct and was rewarded very poorly for it.”

The pale mask is still angled towards the swelling beneath my arm, his fingers resting against my skin as if he might hold me here by force if necessary. “You are not dying.”

“Iscairn, I have the pestilence.”

“I am aware.”

“Then you must also be aware that people have developed an unfortunate habit of dying from it.”

His thumb presses once against the edge of the swelling before his hand falls away. “Other people.”

He turns away quickly, rifling through his satchel and my basket, leaving me staring at his back.

Other people, my arse.

I’ve stood on his side of the bed too often to pretend this is an illness one simply sleeps off. I know how fast the swellings ripen, how quickly the mind unravels until sensible speech turns to gibberish by sundown.