Page 122 of Malady

“Not by much, which is quite a worrying state of affairs.”

She laughs and returns to her tankards while I make for the narrow staircase behind the counter, stepping over the enormous backside of a dog sleeping at its foot. The singing gradually fades as I climb, leaving only the familiar creak of the wooden steps before I reach our little dispensary.

Business has been rather good since we settled in York, with patients coming to us throughout the day and plenty more requiring visits at home. It has also made keeping ourselves fed considerably easier, though the business of consuming souls took me a good few weeks to grow accustomed to. These days I feed perhaps three times a week, usually whilst attending somebody who hasn't much longer left, and although I still find the whole affair a little peculiar, there's some comfort in knowing we can make their passing easier.

It's certainly not how I imagined my career as an apothecary progressing, but then, I never expected to spend eternity sharing a dispensary with a man who carved himself a new face out of a bone he bought with teeth, either.

The lock takes a little persuading before it finally gives, and I push the door open with my shoulder, finding Iscairn seated at the worktable beneath the window. He's bent over his patient ledger, making notes beside a rather detailed drawing of somebody's swollen knee, with his instruments laid out on a strip of clean linen beside him. His mask rests amongst them, leaving his long dark hair to fall loose about his shoulders, though he's tucked most of it behind his ears to keep it out of his way.

He glances up at the sound of the door, and the scar along his jaw pulls as he smiles. “There you are, Ophelia.”

“Here I am, and considerably poorer than when I left.”

I kick the door shut behind me as he sets down his quill and rises to meet me, his smile widening when I lift my face towards his. He bends to kiss me, one hand settling at my waist while I catch a handful of his shirt to pull him a little closer. Oh, I do enjoy being able to do that whenever I please.

“Did you find everything you needed?” he asks as I finally release him.

“Most of it, though Oswald Thwaite charged me fourpence for feverfew. Fourpence! The man must own half of York by now.” I set my basket on the counter, rescuing the linen from beneath the enormous pot of honey. “Oh, and a woman stopped me at the market to ask whether I'd heard about some mad priest wandering the Pennines.”

“A mad priest?” Iscairn repeats, reaching for the fresh linen I've left beside the honey.

“Mm. Apparently, he's been burning houses and frightening half the Pennines, all because he's looking for a woman travelling with the Devil.”

His hand stills on the fabric, and with the look he gives me, I wish I'd kept it to myself.

“Now, before you say anything, I'm perfectly aware of how that sounds.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and busy myself with unpacking the willow bark. “But there must be hundreds of priests wandering about England preaching about devils, and the woman was only after a bit of gossip. She didn't even know the fellow's name.”

“Did she say where he had been seen?”

“Somewhere near Skipton, I think. Her nephew had apparently come through there a few days ago.” I glance at him. “You don't suppose it really could be Gideon?”

“It is possible,” he admits, setting the linen aside. “Though I see little reason for you to concern yourself with him at present. York is a large city, Ophelia, and your brother has no knowledge of where we went after leaving Beswick.”

“Yes, well, that's what I keep telling myself.”

“And you would be wise to listen.”

I raise a brow. “Oh, I do apologise. I hadn't realised I was supposed to be taking advice from myself now.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, and he sinks back onto his stool, reaching for my hand and drawing me towards him until I'm standing between his knees.

“Ophelia,” he says gently, brushing his thumb over my knuckles. “Even if the priest is Gideon, he is searching for you somewhere in the Pennines. We are here, and he has no reason to suspect otherwise.”

“I know.” I sigh, curling my fingers around his. “I know you're right. I just wish he'd find something better to do with his time. Take up gardening, perhaps. He used to be rather good at growing turnips.”

“I suspect he would find fault with those as well.”

“Oh, undoubtedly. One of them would grow crooked, and he'd have the whole bloody garden exorcised.”

Iscairn chuckles, slipping an arm around my waist as I settle my hands on his shoulders. He looks up at me with that crooked little smile I've grown far too fond of and draws me down for a kiss. I go rather willingly, enjoying the warmth of his mouth against mine, and am just beginning to think we might spend the rest of the afternoon like this when the bell above the door jingles.

I jump hard enough to knock my knee against his, and Iscairn laughs as I pull away with a thoroughly disgruntled sigh.

We had Meg install the bell shortly after opening, with a cord running down to the common room so anyone in need of us could summon a physician without hammering on doors or wandering the inn shouting for help. It has worked wonderfully, which is deeply inconvenient, because people have taken that to mean they may use it whenever they like.

“I suppose we’d better earn our keep,” I mutter, kissing him once more before reaching for my apron.

He rises to fetch his mask while I tie the strings behind my back, and gathers his loose hair out of the way before settling the pale bone over his face. By the time I've finished straightening my skirts, he's fastening the last of the ties, and I cross to the door to call down that we're ready.