Page 61 of Malady

“Brothers, in God’s name!” Gideon calls from the church steps, one hand clutching the front of his cassock while the other reaches uselessly after a man already halfway across the yard. “You cannot abandon this parish to the dark!”

Another barges past Brother Matthias with a bloodied strip of linen wrapped around his chest and a bundle of scourges crushed beneath one arm. I step straight into his path before he can follow the others down the lane and catch him by the elbow.

“What happened?” I demand.

His eyes are bloodshot, the whites showing all around them, and his teeth knock together despite the sweat shining through the grime on his face.

“The frost,” he gasps. “It came in the night. We all froze.”

He’s standing in front of me, flushed, sweating, and very… not frozen.

I fold my arms beneath my cloak. “It is January. There is snow on the ground. I should be more concerned if you hadn’t frozen.”

“Not winter. Not God’s clean cold. This came from beneath us.” He crosses himself with fumbling fingers. “A wind rose from the graves, cold as the pit itself. We could not speak, could not even lift our hands to make the sign of the Cross, and all the while, something walked amongst us.”

Around him, two of the other men begin praying louder.

The flagellant leans closer, his breath shuddering between his teeth. “This place is damned. Do you hear me? Damned. The Lord has turned His face from Beswick, and what He left behind belongs to the pit. We felt the Enemy walking amongst us while we lay helpless on the stones. I will not be found kneeling here when the earth swallows it whole.”

Without waiting for an answer, he stumbles around me, nearly losing his footing on the slush, then breaks into a run down the lane. His brethren follow with the handcart rattling after them, prayers and terrified cries fading gradually into the fog.

“Did you have something to do with this?” I whisper to the man at my shoulder.

His beak turns towards me. “I am a respectable physician, Ophelia Harrow. I do not govern the wind.”

“Iscairn.”

He shrugs. “They were remarkably loud. And you needed to rest properly.”

Oh. A ridiculous warmth creeps up the back of my neck despite the cold.

“You frightened over a dozen holy men half to death,” I mutter. “I believe they call that heresy.”

He leans closer, the sheer breadth of his cloak shielding me from the bitter wind. “A difficult crime to commit on behalf of a woman who has no faith,” he murmurs.

“That’s beside the point.”

“Is it? If neither of us holds any reverence for the church, I am at a loss as to whose delicate sensibilities I am supposed to offend.”

“Gideon’s,” I retort, nodding towards the lychgate, where my brother is staring down the empty lane in a state of despair, clutching the greasy strands of his hair.

“You care for your brother’s theological feelings about as much as I do.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to smile. “You are quite mad, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps,” he says, and before I can think of anything to spit back, one gloved finger finds the soft flesh at my waist and gives it a sharp poke.

I suck in a startled breath and jerk sideways, my shoulder bumping into his chest as I twist around to glare up at that bloody mask. The bastard has already drawn his hand back beneath his cloak, of course, leaving me with nothing to swat away and the deeply irritating suspicion that he knew perfectly well what sort of noise that would drag out of me.

“But you slept, didn’t you?” he muses.

I roll my eyes skyward and edge a step beyond his reach, just in case he decides my waist requires further attention. Before I can tell him exactly where he might shove his professional peace, a wail rises from the lychgate.

“Ophi!” Gideon makes his way towards us. “Ophi, they’re gone. They’ve all gone. I tried to stop them; I told them they were safe here, that whatever happened last night was no reason to abandon the parish, but they would not listen to me. Not one of them.”

By the time he reaches us, he’s breathing almost as hard as I was over the boot.

“The Lord’s own penitents, Ophi.” His voice splinters. “Men who crossed the whole country whipping themselves for Him, and even they were frightened enough to run.”