Page 39
“Hm? What do you mean, hm?”
“That was very impolite of you, Ophelia Harrow.”
I blink at him. “Impolite? You know what’s impolite? Letting yourself into a woman’s bedchamber while she’s bloody well sleeping. What. Are. You. Doing. In. Here?”
“Building a new fire.”
“I can see that. But why?”
“The temperature of this room was insufficient.”
“Insufficient for what?”
“Your leg. Cold is a common agitator to an injured limb.” A shower of orange sparks spits against the stonework as he works the iron poker deeper into the grate. “I am physician to this parish. It is my duty to see that an injury is not worsened through stubbornness or neglect.”
“And you believed the remedy was to creep into my bedchamber while I slept?”
Iscairn stays quiet as he drives the wood into the embers with the poker, and watches the fire catch along the bark as though he has all the time in the world.
“Iscairn!”
“I heard you.”
“Then you might at least have the decency to act ashamed.”
“But I am not.”
My teeth clamp together. A strangled noise works its way through them as I look wildly around the bed for something else to throw. The cup is gone, unfortunately, and the candlestick is too far away unless I’m willing to expose considerably more of myself than his skull is worth.
Before I can settle for my lumpy pillow, he sets the poker back beside the hearth and rises from the stool, ducking his head beneath the low rafters.
“There is hot water in the basin,” he says. “Wash yourself before you come downstairs, and leave the window open while you dress.”
I frown. “Why?”
He reaches the doorway, one hand resting against the frame. “Because this room smells of smoke and stale bedding, and you have apparently been passing wind beneath those blankets all night.”
Heat licks at my cheeks. “Oh, pox on you, you insufferable—”
The latch clicks shut. My pillow hits the oak a half-second later, delivering a deeply unsatisfying thud before dropping into a sad, lumpy heap on the floorboards.
Less than ten minutes later, I’m freshly scrubbed and downstairs.
I slam a jar of dried mint onto the counter, muttering under my breath.
People pass wind. Everyone does it. Gideon once fouled a room so badly I had to open both windows in the middle of winter, and when I accused him, he kept a perfectly straight face and blamed the dog.
We did not own a dog.
So I have no reason whatsoever to care what Doctor Iscairn thinks may or may not have happened in here while I slept. None. And yet, when I reach for the feverfew, my hand stops halfway to the shelf. I hitch my shoulder towards my face, bury my nose in the wool and take such a deep sniff I nearly inhale the sleeve.
“The flatulence is no longer sticking to you, then?”
I spin around, my elbow clipping the counter and sending a tin of dried sage clattering across the floorboards.
Iscairn is standing beside the chamomile. How a man that enormous keeps managing to lurk so quietly without me noticing is beyond reason.
“Are you trying to stop my heart?” I demand. “Because if you are, there are quicker ways. Just stab me and be done with it.”
