Page 110 of Malady

Iscairn takes one look at me, then slips his hand around my back and steers me away from the stalls. “Come, Ophelia. Before you do something you will regret.”

“I haven't done anything!” I protest, stumbling around a cart as he guides me through the crowd. “And perhaps I wouldn't be so angry if everybody would stop shoving me! I swear, I could throttle that fishmonger, and I'd quite happily do the same to every miserable sod who's got in my way since we arrived.”

“I know,” he murmurs, keeping his hand firmly against my back. “It is the hunger, and it will only grow worse until you feed. You must try not to let it govern your actions.”

That's all very well for him to say. He's not the one with an awful emptiness gnawing beneath his ribs whilst the entire population of York seems determined to make itself as unbearable as possible.

The alley narrows until there's barely room for the horses between the houses. A foul stream of water carries rotten vegetables towards an open drain, and I gather my skirts to avoid dragging them through it as Iscairn leads us past a heap of rubbish piled against the wall.

“Where exactly are we going?” I ask, following him around another bend. “And what are we supposed to do with the horses?”

“We will find somewhere to leave them. And then, we will find you something to eat.”

“How are we supposed to find somebody dying in a city this size?” I ask. “We could spend days knocking on doors, and I can't very well go about asking strangers whether they've got anyone at death's door.”

“I am a physician, Ophelia. You are an apothecary, and we are standing in a city where half the population appears to live above an open sewer.” Iscairn steps around a puddle of filthy water, glancing at the rubbish collecting against the wall. “I doubt we will have to look very far.”

“Well, unless you've got some miraculous way of knowing where to look, I don't see how we're supposed to⁠—”

“Listen,” he says, turning his mask towards the rooftops. “What do you hear?”

I give him a look. “In York? About half a million things, most of which I'd rather not.”

“Listen beyond them.”

With my head still aching from the racket on the ridge, that's about the last thing I fancy doing, but I close my eyes and try anyway. Somewhere beyond the houses, men shout to one another along the Ouse, and a cooper hammers away a few streets over. A dog won't stop barking, somebody's dragging a cart over the cobbles, and I can hear a woman giving her husband a right earful through an open window.

Then, somewhere beneath it all, comes the slow toll of a bell.

Not the great clamour that nearly split my skull open earlier, but a single bell ringing somewhere beyond the rooftops. A long pause falls between each stroke, and by the third, I know exactly what it means.

My eyes open.

“A passing bell,” I murmur.

“Saint Martin’s, Micklegate, by the sound of it,” Iscairn replies, turning his beak towards the rooftops. “Someone in that parish is approaching their final hour. Come, we ought to see to the horses first.”

We find a little stable tucked behind an alehouse with a spotted dog painted above the door, where an elderly fellow with more gaps in his teeth than actual teeth agrees to take our mounts for the night. He gives Iscairn's mask a long look, but two silver pennies soon settle his concerns, and we're back in the street before the next toll of the bell has faded.

Together, we make our way through the narrow lanes until we reach an alley where the houses lean so close together that barely a scrap of daylight reaches the cobbles. Around the next corner, the clatter of cartwheels gives way to a soft rustling as a wagon passes over a thick layer of straw spread across the street.

I know why it's there.

Halfway along stands a narrow, three-storey house with wool hanging beneath the eaves and a sprig of rosemary fastened above the door. A girl of perhaps twelve sits crying into her apron on the mounting block outside, barely noticing us as we approach.

Ordinarily, I'd already be asking who was ill and whether they'd managed any broth, but the hunger beneath my ribs is getting so bad that I can hardly take my eyes off the door.

“A weaver, I suspect,” Iscairn murmurs, glancing towards the wool hanging above us. “Whoever is inside does not have long left.”

The girl gives another miserable sob, and I look towards Iscairn, keeping my voice low enough that she won't hear. “What do we do? We can't just walk in and announce we've come for somebody's dying relative.”

Iscairn pauses, tapping one gloved forefinger against the cheek of his bone mask. “In ordinary circumstances, I would present my licence from Fellmarsh, claim to be an itinerant physician examining local distempers, and request entry to study the course of the corruption.”

“In ordinary circumstances?” I hiss, catching myself against the wall as another sharp pang tears through my ribs. “It's the middle of the afternoon, Iscairn! That poor girl's sitting outside crying her eyes out, and I can guarantee there's a whole family gathered around the bed. What do you think's going to happen when I open my mouth and light the room up like midsummer? How far do you reckon those fancy papers will get us once somebody starts screaming witchcraft?”

“Ophelia—”

“I am starving my tits off!” I hiss through chattering teeth, clutching at the russet wool over my ribs. “We don’t have time for a medical lecture! If you won’t get us through that door, I will!”