Page 119 of Malady

“I have you,” I tell her, low against her ear. “Stay with me.”

She cries out, her body pulsing, and when her eyes fly open, I see the familiar black membranes slipping across them. The sight of her looking up at me with eyes so like my own is enough to undo me, and I groan as the light surges around us, burning bright for a few wonderful moments before slowly, slowly fading away.

I ease myself down beside her and brush the damp hair from her forehead, smoothing the loose strands back from her face as she turns towards me with a sleepy smile. Her cheek settles comfortably into my palm, and when she opens her eyes to look at me, I find the black membranes have yet to recede. It is a peculiar thing, seeing something so familiar upon another face, particularly one I have grown so terribly fond of looking at. They suit her rather beautifully, though I suspect she would disagree, and I cannot help smiling as I stroke my thumb over her cheek and gently turn her face towards the candlelight for a better look.

“What?” she murmurs, her eyes following mine.

“Nothing, Ophelia.”

Unfortunately, I have never been particularly skilled at concealing my fascination with her, and when my thumb comes to rest beneath one of those lovely black eyes, her sleepy expression gives way to immediate suspicion.

“Oh, bollocks.” She narrows her eyes at me. “They’ve gone black, haven’t they?”

“They have.”

“For pox’s sake.” She lets out an enormous sigh and sinks back against the pillow, though when I withdraw my hand, she catches it and presses my palm firmly against her cheek again. “If you’re about to fetch a candle and examine them, I swear I shall bite you.”

“I was merely admiring them.”

“You were turning my head about like a cabbage at market.”

“A particularly beautiful cabbage.”

She gives me a thoroughly unimpressed look, made all the more delightful by the fact that her eyes are still entirely black, and I lean down to kiss the furrow between her brows before she can think of something unpleasant to call me.

“I shall leave them alone,” I promise, settling beside her once more.

“Good. And stop smiling.”

I make an effort to oblige her, though it becomes much harder when she closes her eyes, catches my hand beneath her chin, and draws it back against her cheek as though she has every intention of keeping it there for the rest of the night.

30

OPHELIA

Nothing says a lovely Tuesday morning quite like finding oneself ankle-deep in piss and shit while a butcher waves a severed pig’s head beneath my nose.

“Fresh this morning, mistress!” he bellows, thrusting the unfortunate creature towards me.

“Yes, thank you, I can smell it.”

I duck beneath the pig’s snout and squeeze past a woman carrying a basket of onions, only to find myself caught between two gentlemen arguing over the price of a sheep’s liver. By the time I manage to get around them, somebody’s trodden on my skirt, and I’m beginning to wonder whether York might have been better enjoyed from a distance.

The Shambles is heaving.

There are people left, right and centre, with barely enough room to turn without finding somebody’s sweaty armpit beneath my nose. Merchants shout themselves hoarse over the rattle of passing handcarts, while a man beside the neighbouring stall coughs so hard he has to stop and spit into the gutter. Nobody pays him the slightest attention, apart from a woman who tells him to get out of her bloody way. Pestilence is still rife in York, it seems, though the people here have apparently decided that a little sickness and death is no reason to interrupt their shopping.

And yet, for all its faults, I'm rather enjoying myself.

I've already purchased two good lengths of clean linen and enough willow bark to see me through the winter. The honey cost a small fortune, admittedly, but I couldn't resist the enormous pot the merchant had tucked beneath his stall, even if Iscairn will undoubtedly have something to say about the weight of my basket when he sees it. There are still a few things I need for the dispensary, but it's rather nice to be worrying about the price of dried herbs instead of wondering how many of my patients will have died by the time I get home.

“Ah! Miss Apothecary!” comes a familiar voice as I approach the next stall. “What can I get thee this fine mornin’?”

I look up to find Oswald Thwaite beaming at me from behind his little mountain of dried herbs, his sleeves rolled above his elbows and a sprig of something green caught in his beard.

“Morning, Oswald. I'll have some feverfew, please, and half a measure of horehound, if you've any left.”

“Aye, plenty of that.” He turns to the shelves behind him, rummaging amongst the little linen sacks. “Owt else for thee?”