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“I don’t suppose you brought a spare gown in that satchel along with your bottles?” I ask, plucking the stiff fabric away from my stomach. “Because I can hardly walk out into Oakhaven dressed like a drowned rat in a butcher’s apron.”
The words have barely left my mouth before it hits me. Oakhaven. The one parish in the valley that barred its roads in time, and I’m sitting in the middle of it in a shift soaked through with plague.
“Iscairn,” I say slowly. “You brought a plague-sick woman into the only parish that’s kept it out.”
“You are no longer plague-sick,” he says, tucking the damp cloth back into his satchel. “And that shift will be burned before we leave. Also, no, I did not pack your wardrobe. However, I did take the liberty of negotiating a change of attire as part of the consultation fee.”
Before I can ask what that means, two timid raps sound against the outer timber of the barn door.
“Enter,” Iscairn calls.
The door creaks open just enough for Ralph to squeeze back through, looking decidedly paler than he had ten minutes ago. He’s clutching an armful of folded wool and clean linen against his chest, his knuckles white around the fabric.
“I—I brought them, Doctor,” Ralph stammers, coming to a dead halt three paces from the threshold. “From me wife’s chest. Martha’s about Ophelia’s height. She won't be needing 'em till spring anyway.”
“Set them down,” Iscairn directs, gesturing towards an old trough.
Ralph scurries forward, dumps the bundle onto the timber, and practically trips over his own clogs as he scrambles back towards the door.
“Ralph?” I call after him. “I would still very much like that ale.”
He squeaks something that might be agreement and vanishes.
“You bullied him into robbing his own wife’s wardrobe?” I murmur.
“I provided an urgent medical service to a man whose toes were on the verge of liquefying,” Iscairn replies as he steps over to collect the clothes. “A warm kirtle and clean stockings were a remarkably modest price for saving his limb. Now, let us see if Martha Smythe possesses any taste.”
Twenty minutes later, I no longer look like a corpse dragged from a ditch.
Martha Smythe's kirtle is a deep russet wool, laced snugly over a clean linen shift, with an apron tied about my waist. The clothes smell faintly of lavender and tallow soap, and I smooth the fabric over my hips, trying not to think about how long it's been since I wore anything so clean.
It's a strange thing, standing here in another woman's clothes when I've nothing of my own left. My shop is gone, along with all the medicines I'd spent years collecting, and I doubt much of my garden remains after the fire. Even if it did, I can hardly imagine returning to Beswick after what happened in the church.
Over two hundred souls, and not a physician or an apothecary left between them. I lanced their swellings for a year. I sat with their dying and boiled their linen and painted their crosses, and when my brother carried me through the snow to put me in the dark, they stood in the lane with their torches and let him. I understand why. Frightened people will follow anyone who promises the dying can be stopped, and Gideon has been promising it all winter. I suppose they’ll have to learn the difference between feverfew and tansy on their own.
“Right, then,” I say, brushing a little straw from my skirts. “I suppose there's little point in worrying about what's already burned. We can't stay in Ralph's father's barn forever, and I'd rather not be here when the parish bailiff comes looking for us. Where are we going?”
“I had considered London,” Iscairn replies casually, adjusting the strap of his satchel over his charred cloak. “Or perhaps York, if you prefer a shorter journey to begin with.”
“The city?”
“The city,” he repeats. “It is large enough that nobody will concern themselves with a country doctor and his apothecary, and there are more than enough dying souls to sustain us both. Besides, you once mentioned that you had never travelled very far. I thought you might enjoy seeing a little more of the world.”
“Have you completely lost your wits?” I stare at him. “Iscairn, the cities are enormous pest houses! Thousands of people crammed together, tipping their chamber pots straight into the streets until the gutters are running with filth. And with the plague spreading south, I shouldn't be surprised if half the population is already coughing its lungs up and the death carts are overflowing.”
“Ophelia—”
“And the smell! I've spent my entire life trying to keep people from dying of the bloody flux, and now you want me to go and live amongst it? I'll have the sweating sickness before we've found somewhere to sleep.”
“Ophelia.” He raises one hand and gestures towards my body.
I follow the movement, then look back at him.
Oh. Right. I’m dead. Kind of.
“Right,” I mutter, tugging at the russet wool. “Well. The smell would still be bloody awful, wouldn't it?”
A dry huff escapes from behind the pale bone beak, and Iscairn hoists his leather satchel onto his shoulder.
