Page 12 of Malady

She turns a watery glare upon me, but a scowl is better than a sob.

Iscairn opens his satchel, setting a narrow blade beside the basin I brought, along with a curved needle and several smaller instruments. Naturally, I move closer. It would be rude not to inspect the equipment I’ll be working beside.

“You’re going to cut him?” Alice whispers.

“The swelling on his arm is ready to be opened,” Iscairn says. “If it remains closed, the corruption will continue to build beneath the skin. Draining it may lessen the pain and give his body more strength to fight what is already in his blood.”

She whimpers. “May?”

Iscairn’s mask turns towards her. “Yes. I will not promise you more than I can give, but leaving it untouched will only make him suffer.”

I pour a measure of poppy tincture into a spoon and cross to the bed, lifting David’s head just enough to bring it to his lips. “Drink.”

He does—or at least he tries to—though half of it dribbles down his chin. I wipe it away with the sheet and lower him back onto the pillow as Iscairn raises his arm higher, exposing the swollen flesh beneath.

Alice makes a strangled sound by the window, but I’m too occupied preventing her husband from striking our new physician to offer sympathy. I pin David’s wrist to the mattress, my grip locking over fingers that are shockingly cold and black with necrosis, but despite the fever, he’s much stronger than he looks. When he starts to struggle, I hook one knee against the bed and put my weight into him, sending a vicious ache through my left thigh.

It can ache all it bloody well wants. David is about to have a considerably worse morning.

A guttural scream rips through the room as blade meets flesh. David’s back bows from the mattress. I throw more of my weight across his chest, and the room washes white at the edges, but I grit my teeth and hold on.

Black-red blood spills first, followed by thick yellow-grey filth that pours into the basin and runs down David’s ribs. The smell reaches us a moment later—sour pus, shit, and meat left too long in the heat—and Alice turns for the open window, getting her head over the sill just before she vomits, the mess hitting the stones below with a wet slap.

I would very much like to join her. Unfortunately, we are not finished.

The bubo on David’s jaw still needs opening, and as I shift to give Iscairn room, another swelling comes into view in the crease of his groin, smaller than the others but already hard and angry beneath the skin.

Twice more I brace David against the mattress while Iscairn cuts, and twice more my left leg takes the strain. By the time it’s done, the basin is cloudy with blood and curdled corruption, ruined linen lies in sodden heaps beside the bed, and David’s screams have worn down to broken noises that scarcely make it beyond the pillow.

I ease my weight off him and put my boot to the floor, only for my knee to buckle beneath me. I catch the bedpost before I follow it down and stay there, jaw clenched, waiting for the worst of the pain to pass while pretending very hard that I’m merely taking an unusual interest in the grain of the wood.

“Come here,” Iscairn says to Alice.

Her gaze drops to the bloodied basin, and she shakes her head.

“You need not look at the mess,” he assures her. “Look at me.”

Something in his voice brings her unsteadily to her feet. She crosses the room but stops well short of the bed, as though the pestilence might leap the remaining distance if she ventures any closer.

Iscairn folds a clean strip of linen between his hands as he speaks. “The dressings must be changed morning and evening. Wash your hands in vinegar before you touch him and again when you finish. If the cloth sticks, wet it before pulling it free—do not rip it.”

“Wash before and after,” she whispers, nodding. “Change them morning and evening. Wet the cloth if it sticks.”

“Good. Give him watered ale and broth in small amounts. If he vomits, wait before offering more. Do not force him to eat, and do not allow him to scratch the wounds.”

David groans.

“You may object as much as you like,” Iscairn tells him without turning. “You will not touch those wounds. And if the blackness on your fingers begins to spread, you must keep them wrapped so the dead flesh does not catch on the bedding. I shall return this evening, and until then, neither of you leaves this house.”

Alice nods quickly. “We won’t.”

“Good,” I say, gathering the bloodied linen into my basket. “Because the cross on your door was not intended as decoration.”

Her head snaps towards me. “Brother Gideon said we could leave.”

My hands go still amongst the stained cloth. “Oh, he did, did he?”

“He came yesterday to pray over the house. Afterwards, he said the danger had passed, and the Lord had spared us.” Her gaze flickers towards the bed. “When David worsened this morning, I thought⁠—”