Page 136 of Malady

“Matthew?”

He flinches at the sound of my voice, and my stomach sinks as I glance towards Mrs Marchant, who's already retreating towards her doorway with one hand pressed over her mouth. She catches me looking and hurriedly makes the sign of the cross, while the fishmonger stands beside his stall, utterly silent.

I'd grown so fond of our little life here, of knowing the people along these streets and having somewhere to return to at the end of each day. For the first time since leaving Beswick, I'd begun to think of York as home, and now I can barely bring myself to look at the faces around us, or the way people draw back whenever our eyes meet.

We cannot stay here.

Gideon is still weeping on the cobbles, his prayers interrupted by the occasional wet cough. For all the harm he's done, he's still my brother, and he's dying. I brush the damp hair from his forehead, and although he flinches at my touch, I lean down and press a gentle kiss against his feverish skin.

“I love you, Gideon,” I tell him, my voice trembling. “I always have, you know. I hope you find some peace.”

His eyes squeeze shut. “May God forgive you, Ophi.”

The familiar little name hurts more than anything else he could have said, and I have to swallow before I can bring myself to move. Matthias comes forward to kneel beside him, gathering Gideon's remaining hand between his own, and I leave them together as I rise from the cobbles.

A little farther away, Thomas stands amongst the men from Beswick, looking horribly small in his filthy clothes. His eyes widen as I approach, and he backs away so hastily that he nearly stumbles into the fellow behind him.

“Thomas, it's all right.” I stop a few paces away, but he only shakes his head, his gaze darting between my blackened eyes and hands.

I remember him coming into my apothecary with his little coughs and complaints, lingering beside the shelves until I found him something to eat. He's still only a boy, for God's sake, and now he's standing amongst men who have spent the morning calling for us to be burned alive.

Whatever happens to Gideon, I cannot leave Thomas to wander about England with this lot any longer.

I reach into my cloak for the purse I'd brought to the market, then turn towards Matthew, who is still standing a few paces away. “Matthew? Would you come here a moment, please?”

He hesitates, his eyes darting towards my blackened ones before dropping to the purse in my hand, and the look on his face makes my throat tighten. I toss it towards him before he can retreat any further, and he fumbles with the leather before catching it against his chest.

“Take Thomas somewhere safe, will you? There's enough in there to see that he's properly cared for.”

Matthew glances towards the boy, then back at me, his face pale. “Miss Harrow, I…”

“Please, Matthew.” I try to smile, though he can barely bring himself to look at me. “He's only a boy. He shouldn't be wandering about with these men.”

“Aye, Miss Harrow. I will.” He clutches the purse against his apron, then makes his way towards Thomas, speaking quietly as he approaches.

“Thank you,” I call after him, turning to Iscairn, who waits a few paces away.

Not half an hour ago, we'd been wandering through the market hand in hand, laughing together, and now the very people who'd greeted us so warmly are moving aside to avoid me. But when I reach Iscairn and hold out my blackened hand, he takes it without hesitation, his gloved fingers closing around mine with such familiar tenderness that fresh tears prick my eyes.

Iscairn draws me against his side as we leave the square, and the townsfolk move aside without a word. Nobody calls after us, and I cannot bring myself to look back, though Gideon's dreadful, rattling coughs follow us into the narrow streets beyond the market. I keep close to Iscairn as we make our way towards the Cock and Magpie, where the familiar bustle of York carries on around us as though nothing has happened.

By the time we reach the inn, the tears have dried upon my cheeks, and upstairs, our dispensary stands exactly as we left it that morning, right down to the cup of tea I abandoned beside the hearth.

It takes us less than an hour to gather our belongings. I wrap the surgical instruments in linen and arrange our bottles of tinctures amongst our spare clothing, while Iscairn collects his ledgers and that peculiar little pouch of teeth. We work quietly alongside one another, packing what we can carry, though the shelves are still crowded with salves and poultices I've spent so many evenings preparing.

I take down a jar of feverfew, turning it over in my hands as I think of the people who might come looking for us tomorrow, expecting to find the dispensary open as usual. There's no room for it, unfortunately, so I return it to the shelf, making sure the label faces out.

When everything is packed, I linger beside the workbench, looking towards the neatly swept hearth and the armchair where Iscairn has spent so many evenings reading while I worked on my medicines. I can almost imagine us sitting there tonight, drinking our tea and discussing the day's patients, and the thought of never doing so again brings a fresh ache to my chest.

“Are you ready, Ophelia Harrow?”

Iscairn is waiting by the door, his mask fastened and his satchel over one shoulder. I pull my gloves back over my blackened fingers, taking care to smooth the leather into place.

“Ready.

34

OPHELIA