Page 56 of Malady

I make myself move, but before I’ve managed more than two steps, Iscairn plants himself in my way, and I nearly collide with his bloodied chest.

“What are you doing?”

He glances past me towards the brook. “Take the lower route.”

My brow lifts. “Have you somehow failed to notice the state of it? The mud looks deep enough to lose a moderately sized child, and my leg’s already making me pay for the day we’ve had.”

“You will manage.”

“Oh, excellent. That settles it, then.” I shift my weight, trying to take some of the ache out of my leg. “Now move. I’m knackered, and this way is flat, and much less likely to end with me face-down in a ditch.”

“I would rather take the lower track.”

I stare at him for a moment, then glance past his shoulder towards the mill. “Why? Does it frighten you? Have you been concealing some dreadful history with flour all this time?”

“Mill dust gets beneath the lenses,” he says. “And once it works its way into the beak, it is remarkably difficult to be rid of.”

Slowly, I turn back to him. “After everything I’ve seen, dust is where you draw the line? We won’t be going inside the mill. It hasn’t even been used in years.”

“I have learned not to underestimate it.”

I press my lips together. “That may be the worst excuse I’ve ever heard. Move.”

He doesn’t.

So I try the left, only to dart right at the last moment. Iscairn catches on immediately and shifts with me, one easy step putting him squarely in my way again. I glare up at him, and for one ridiculous second neither of us moves.

Then I try the other side.

So does he.

A laugh escapes me, because this is getting bloody ridiculous, and I’m not completely sure which of us is being more childish. Unfortunately, my leg seems to have had quite enough of it, and when I make another attempt to get around him, my knee nearly gives way.

“Oh, bollocks!”

I regain my footing and immediately make a determined bid for his left side. Before I can even clear his chest, my knee buckles again, and that solid, leather-clad hand catches my upper arm before I can go down.

I huff, steadying myself. “At this rate, you may as well just carry me.”

His fingers release me, and I draw a deep breath. Only for him to bend down, slip one arm behind my knees and the other around my back, and lift me up.

“Iscairn!”

The egg nearly flies from my fingers. I manage to catch it against my chest, grabbing a fistful of his cloak with my free hand as the ground drops away.

“Put me down!” I twist in his arms as he sets off down the track, both my feet dangling uselessly above the ground. “You cannot simply pick people up whenever the mood takes you.”

“You suggested it.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Then you should endeavour to make that clearer.”

I roll my eyes. “You knew perfectly well I was being sarcastic.”

He steps neatly over a strip of mud that would have swallowed me halfway to the shin and continues on. “I did.”

“If you make a habit of carrying me about,” I tell him, finishing off my egg, “I shall start expecting it everywhere we go. And I shan’t be leaving my baskets behind, either. So when you find yourself staggering through Beswick with me in your arms, six jars of tincture dangling from your elbows and half a sack of turnips over your shoulder, I hope you remember that you brought the whole bloody business upon yourself.”