Page 31 of Malady

The refusal sits on the tip of my tongue. I could simply walk away and let whatever has taken hold in Billy Mercer’s house run its course. By tomorrow, the parish would have found some comforting way to call it God’s will. But Nell Mercer has never harmed me. Neither have the children who have the misfortune of calling him their father.

Reluctantly, I turn back.

“Thomas,” I call.

The boy beside the smithy looks up from the icicle he has been wielding against an invisible enemy and immediately straightens.

“Run the crossed houses and find Doctor Iscairn,” I say. “Tell him he is wanted at the yellow door on Butter Lane as soon as he has finished his rounds.”

“After ‘is rounds?” Billy shouts, his grotty cheeks flushing crimson as he starts towards me, fists tightening at his sides. “She’s dyin’ now, and tha’d ‘ave ‘im finish visitin’ ‘alf t’bloody parish before ‘e comes to ‘er?” His face twists. “Tha’s enjoyin’ this. Tha’s waited years for it, ‘asn’t tha? Spiteful, limpin’ witch. Now tha gets to stand there and dole t’doctor out like alms whilst Nell⁠—”

“There is no need to fetch me, Ophelia Harrow. I am already here.”

Billy’s mouth stays open, though whatever he had intended to call me next never quite makes it out. Doctor Iscairn stands at the mouth of the lane with his satchel at his side, his black coat shifting around his boots in the wind, and his pale beak turned towards us with that faintly curious tilt of his.

“Although I confess myself somewhat confused,” he continues, looking from Billy to me. “If Ophelia Harrow is a witch, I should think my assistance unnecessary. Surely she ought to be capable of curing your wife with a muttered word and a handful of weeds.”

My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek before a smile can betray me.

“I’m afraid my powers have been rather disappointing thus far,” I say. “It appears I remain only the limping spinster with the pestle.”

Iscairn walks towards us slowly. Whatever courage remained beneath that greasy bald head of Billy’s seems to drain away with every step he takes, until he’s no longer the man snarling insults across the lane, but looking more like a kicked dog.

“Doctor. Nell—me wife—she’s been sickin’ up since midnight, and now she can barely⁠—”

“Yes,” Iscairn says as he reaches us. “I heard you.”

Billy lurches towards him anyway, both hands coming up in some desperate appeal, but he barely gets within arm’s reach before Iscairn catches him beneath the chin. One black-gloved hand tilts his face upwards with almost insulting ease.

“There is a small bone here,” Iscairn says, pressing his fingers lightly into the flesh beneath Billy’s chin. “The hyoid. It supports the tongue and assists with swallowing, yet touches no other bone in the body. Quite remarkable, really.” His thumb moves no more than the width of a nail, and Billy’s mouth snaps shut. “It is also rather vulnerable. Enough pressure in precisely the right place and speaking becomes difficult, swallowing painful, and a man may find himself forced to consider whether every word is truly worth the trouble of producing.”

What on earth does that have to do with Nell Mercer vomiting herself half to death?

“I have occasionally thought it would be an improving injury in certain… patients,” Iscairn adds.

Oh, bloody hell.

Yesterday, I might have found this deeply satisfying. Today, with Gideon’s warning still fresh in my mind, I’m considerably less delighted by how casually Iscairn is demonstrating it in the middle of the lane.

I should tell him to take his hand away. Too many ears are listening, and far too many holy men are within shouting distance for him to draw this kind of attention.

Unfortunately, Billy Mercer has never looked more agreeable. Pale and cowed beneath Iscairn’s hand, he’s almost pleasant to behold, and despite every sensible instinct telling me to intervene, I can’t quite bring myself to spoil it.

I wonder what might leave his mouth should Iscairn ever kneel beside his deathbed. Would it be a blue light, like Alice’s? Perhaps it’s always blue. Or perhaps whatever that light is takes something of the person with it, in which case Billy’s ought to be a particularly unpleasant shade of something sour and bilious. Brown maybe, or green, if the world has retained even the smallest sense of justice.

“Ophelia Harrow was prepared to help you and your wife despite the considerable effort you have made to insult her,” Iscairn continues, apparently unaware that I have just assigned Billy’s soul a colour. “In fact, if I understood correctly, she had already sent a boy to find me before I arrived. So I suggest the next thing you say reflects that.”

My gaze shamelessly drops to the front of Billy’s breeches.

No piss stain. Pity.

“Thank thee, Miss Harrow,” Billy grits out.

The moment Iscairn releases him, he stumbles back, then sprints for home, leaving us standing in the muck whilst the penitents continue wailing beyond the churchyard wall.

I gesture to the bottle tucked under my arm. “I need to get this to the Carters. I won’t be two minutes. Meet me by the yellow door on Butter Lane.”

He looks down at me, silent behind those amber lenses, and I get the uncomfortable feeling that he’s enjoying this far more than he ought to.