Page 11 of Malady

“I cannot cure this pestilence. Some of you will recover, and others will die, though I cannot tell you beforehand which you will be. Anyone who claims otherwise is either mistaken or lying.”

Oh, for the love of⁠—

“Doctor—”

“Some of you standing here may already carry the sickness without knowing it, and every moment you spend gathered together places your neighbours in further danger. Prayer will not prevent you from passing it to those around you.”

A small cry echoes off the stones whilst the rest of the crowd stare at him open-mouthed.

“You have been given comfort,” he continues. “It has not kept you alive. I am offering instruction instead. But you will not be alone in it.”

That’s a rather large promise from a man who, until this morning, didn’t know Beswick existed.

“Every house in this parish that bears a cross, I will visit each morning. You need not send for me, and until I have been, nobody inside steps into the road. Tell me what you require when I come, and I will see that you have it. If fever begins in a house not yet marked, come to Doctor Taylor’s cottage and knock until I answer. I will enter your homes, sit beside your sick and stay as long as I am needed. You will not be left to hold your husbands down alone, nor listen to your children suffer because nobody is willing to cross the threshold. I cannot promise that everyone will live, but I can promise that none of you will be abandoned because the hour is late or your door bears a cross. That is what I can give you.”

“Beg pardon, Doctor,” Widow Pike says, clutching her shawl a little tighter. “You mean even in the middle of the night? Only Doctor Taylor were never best pleased to be fetched out after his supper.”

The amber lenses lower towards her. “I do not sleep much.”

Before she can ask anything else, the church doors groan open behind us. Gideon steps back out with a stack of Taylor’s cracked, leather-bound records wedged beneath one arm and a ring of keys clinking from his fist.

And just like that, the parish has itself a physician again.

4

OPHELIA

David lies on the bed at the far end of the room, stark naked beneath the sheets and struggling for every breath. One arm is flung above his head, leaving the great, hulking bubo beneath it fully exposed. It pulses like a second heart, the skin stretched tight and purple around the swelling, darkening towards the centre where the flesh has begun to soften. He tries to turn his head towards me, but another lump bulges from his jaw, forcing him sideways against the pillow as a wet, painful rasp escapes his throat. His fingers claw at the damp sheets, their tips already mottled with the telltale, bruised blackness of the pestilence.

The sight is bad enough. The smell is worse. It reeks in here. It doesn’t matter how many pestilence houses I visit; the stench still makes my eyes water despite my mask.

I cross to the window and shove the shutters wide, letting fresh air into the room. As I turn back, a rat scuttles from beneath the stool and darts across my boot.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

It makes for the bed, but I catch it by the tail and fling the writhing little bastard straight out into the lane.

Iscairn is already at the bedside, setting his satchel on the stool as though women hurling rats through windows are an entirely ordinary part of a physician’s morning. Though considering his first day in Beswick has so far consisted of examining Rose and Paul Bagge’s infant before breakfast while the child tried determinedly to chew through his glove, perhaps the morning has already established a certain standard.

I soak a folded cloth in vinegar and wring it out before handing it to Iscairn. The moment he presses it beneath David’s arm, the man jerks against the mattress with a raw groan, fingers knotting in the bedding before instinct sends his hand towards the swelling.

Iscairn catches his wrist. “Do not do that, David Fletcher. You will only make the pain worse.”

David’s fevered eyes flit to the beak above him, and he swallows with a wince. “Am I dying?”

“You are very ill.”

“That is not what I asked, Doctor.”

“No,” Iscairn says, releasing his wrist and laying the cool linen against his arm once more. “It is not.”

I turn to the brazier and hold the bundle of herbs against the coals until bitter grey smoke curls from the leaves. As Alice edges towards the bed, I straighten and thrust the smouldering bundle beneath her nose before she can come any closer.

“Here.”

She drags in a startled breath and chokes. “Ophelia!”

“Yes, dreadful, I know.” I catch her by the elbow and steer her towards the open window. “Stay here, keep your face near the fresh air, and try not to faint.”