Page 103 of Malady

“You will manage the aroma,” he says, turning towards the barn door. “We are borrowing two of the Smythe family’s horses for the journey. Ralph was kind enough to offer mules, but I have found them rather difficult to persuade. They seem particularly offended by creatures such as ourselves, whereas horses are generally more accommodating.”

“Borrowing? Does Ralph know that?”

“He does now.”

I follow him to the door, but the mention of our journey brings me up short. Something about leaving Beswick doesn't quite make sense to me, especially how we got here.

“Hang on,” I say, catching at his cloak. “How did we get away from Gideon? He was right there in the crypt, and I distinctly remember him trying to beat you senseless with a wooden cross. You cannot tell me he simply stood aside and let you carry me out.”

“Your brother did not have much say in the matter,” Iscairn replies smoothly. “His forearm was broken in two, which curbed his enthusiasm for brandishing wooden staves. The light did the rest for everyone else—they scattered into the village to save their own hides, and I walked out past your brother while he was still sobbing into the dust.”

A grim little shiver traces my spine, but underneath it, that strange, quiet satisfaction returns. No mobs. No ropes. No well.

Giddy with relief, I take a light-footed skip towards the sunlight, only for a sharp throb to shoot through my left thigh the moment my foot touches the ground. The pain wrenches into my hip, and I stumble sideways, catching myself against the wooden post.

“Bloody hell!” I hiss, rubbing at my thigh. “Iscairn, you've changed me. Why on earth does my leg still hurt?”

“The change has mended the worst of what the pestilence did, but your leg was injured many years ago. It appears to have remained much as it was.”

I look down at the offending limb. “So I'm to spend eternity limping about, am I?”

“Not necessarily. The soulglimmer belongs to you now, and with practice, you may be able to use it to mend the damage yourself. At the very least, it ought to ease the pain.”

“Then why didn't you do it while I was in the crypt?”

“Because I was not certain what the change would do to an injury so old, and I would not attempt anything further without your consent.” He pauses, his head tilting slightly. “I have carried injuries of my own for centuries, Ophelia. I have grown accustomed to them, but that does not mean you ought to endure yours. I thought the decision should belong to you.”

For years, I have wished somebody might find a way to relieve the dreadful ache in my leg, and now he is telling me that I may be able to do it myself. The prospect is almost too wonderful to comprehend, although I have little intention of experimenting with powers I barely understand while standing in the middle of a barn.

“Well, you'll have to show me how it's done,” I tell him, straightening carefully. “Though I reserve the right to complain about the bloody thing until we manage it.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

I smile, but as I reach to straighten my apron, the blackened tips of my fingers catch my attention.

“And what about these?” I ask, holding them towards the light. “Are they supposed to stay like that?”

Iscairn takes my hand and turns it gently between his own, studying the darkened flesh. “I do not know,” he admits. “I had expected the change to restore them, but it seems I was mistaken.”

I curl my fingers into my palm and stretch them out again. “Well, they still work. That's something, I suppose.”

“It is.”

I slip my hand back into his, and he closes his fingers around mine, steadying me as I put my weight on my troublesome leg again.

Outside, the wind whistles through the Smythes' orchard, though for once the cold doesn't trouble me in the slightest. A whole world waits beyond that barn door, and apparently I've got an absurd number of years to see it. I haven't the faintest idea what I'm supposed to do with them, but I imagine I'll have plenty of time to complain about that later.

“All right, Doctor,” I murmur, squeezing his hand. “Let's go and see about this city of yours.”

27

OPHELIA

Twelve hours in the saddle across the high moors ought to have killed me.

By all rights, my toes should've frozen off inside my boots, my backside should be bruised beyond all useful function, and I should've toppled from Ralph Smythe's sturdy bay mare into a peat ditch several miles ago, where Iscairn would no doubt have had to fish me out by the back of my kirtle.

Yet here I am, still upright. Not comfortable, exactly. There's no version of sitting astride a horse for half a day that doesn't leave a woman considering which parts of herself she might willingly remove for relief. But I'm not shivering, and I can feel all ten fingers.