Page 68 of Malady

And a bad one at that.

“Christ,” I whisper.

Iscairn’s gloved fingers settle carefully against the child’s chest, counting the frantic little breaths while I reach for the clean linen.

We may have to open it.

The thought turns my stomach. I've cut into more of the vile things than I care to count, but never one tucked beneath a chin still soft with baby fat, on a neck scarcely wider than my wrist. How the bloody hell am I supposed to get a blade in there without doing more harm than good?

Mary’s weeping turns shrill. “He was feeding this morning. He was fine, Ophelia, he was fine⁠—”

The bell jingles as Arthur comes pelting through the door. “Mary?”

“Leave the door wide,” I snap, without turning. “Don’t let the air stall—and stay back.”

“No,” Gideon whispers. “Lord, have mercy upon him. Our Father, who art in heaven⁠—”

“Gideon, outside,” I demand.

His prayer stumbles. “Ophi⁠—”

“Pray at the door if you must, but do it from the other side of it. Arthur, Mary, you too.”

Arthur hesitates only long enough to take Mary gently by the shoulders and guide her outside, while Gideon lingers in the doorway, looking thoroughly unwilling to leave the child. It takes another sharp look from me before he finally follows them, pulling the door mostly closed behind him.

“Leave it open!” I call after him. “We'll need the light.”

Arthur catches it before it shuts and props it open with a chunk of firewood from beside the hearth. A moment later, Gideon begins praying again, his voice carrying in from the lane.

By the time I turn back, Iscairn has tucked clean linen beneath the baby’s shoulders to raise him a little. I wet another cloth and pass it across, and he carefully wipes the sweat from beneath the little boy’s jaw, working around the dreadful swelling while I reach for fresh water.

“Easy,” I murmur, slipping one hand beneath the baby’s head while Iscairn cleans the sweat from the folds of his neck. “There you are, little love. I know. I know.”

His face screws up, a weak sound catching in his throat, and I stroke my thumb over the hot roundness of his cheek while Iscairn shifts his great hand beneath the child’s back, supporting almost all of him on one forearm.

“That’s it. You complain as much as you like. I’d be furious too.”

Mary gives a wet, broken laugh from the threshold that collapses into another sob.

I keep talking, nonsense mostly, because he’s a baby and babies deserve nonsense when the rest of the world has become unbearable. Iscairn works quietly beside me, passing what I need before I can ask for it while I wipe the sweat and filth from the little boy’s skin. By the time we’re finished, there’s nothing left to distract from the ugly purple swelling beneath his jaw.

Iscairn’s head turns slightly towards the Vances, checking where they stand.

Please. Please use the soulglimmer. Please.

I shift closer to the counter, leaning over the baby as if I’m only reaching for another cloth, letting my shoulders block as much of him from their view as I can. Iscairn’s hand remains spread across the child’s little chest beneath mine, perfectly still for several heartbeats.

Then blue begins to gather beneath his glove.

Only a thread at first, so faint I might have mistaken it for firelight catching in the child’s skin, but another follows, and another, delicate streams of colour winding beneath the fevered flesh. His clenched little fists loosen against the blanket, and the miserable crease between his brows softens as the blue sinks deeper, spreading through him in quiet, flickering veins.

Mary sniffles from the threshold. “He’s stopped crying.”

“I know. It’s because he’s ever so brave,” I murmur, keeping myself firmly between her and Iscairn’s hand as I stroke the damp hair back from her son’s forehead. “Let him rest.”

Mrs Higgins appears in the doorway before Mary can answer, pushing her way past the little gathering outside with one hand pressed beneath her jaw and her bonnet hanging halfway down her back.

“Ophelia, I—” A wet, hacking cough folds her in two, and she has to grip the doorframe until it passes. “There’s something here.” She presses harder beneath her jaw. “It came up this morning. I thought it was my tooth, but⁠—”