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“Then make him spare one anyway.”

For a while, we sit in silence, neither of us willing to break it first. Then I remember the honey cake tucked inside my cloak and fish it out, slightly flattened but otherwise unharmed, before pressing it into Gideon’s hand.

He looks down at it, brow furrowing. “What’s this?”

“Divine intervention.”

His mouth twitches, and I bump my shoulder gently against his. A quiet breath leaves him, taking some of the tension with it, and he leans into me as he takes a bite.

If one honey cake can achieve this much, perhaps Mrs Higgins can be persuaded to bake a dozen more. With enough sugar and persistence, I may yet fatten my brother into submission and have that letter to the diocese on a rider's horse by nightfall.

Tomorrow will bring more bodies for the cart, and by dawn somebody will be hammering on my door for whatever miracle they expect me to scrape from an empty shelf. For now, I sit beside my brother in the cold and allow us ten minutes in which none of it matters.

Ten minutes is all I can spare. If a physician doesn’t ride into Beswick soon, neither of us will see the end of winter.

2

OPHELIA

“Come on,” I mutter, digging my heels into the mule’s sides for what must be the fiftieth time.

We’ve been travelling for four hours and are only now approaching the first village, though travelling is perhaps a generous description of what she’s been doing. No amount of kicking, pleading, or increasingly personal threats has persuaded her to move at anything faster than a snail’s crawl.

The things I endure for my parish. If I actually survive this wretched journey, Beswick owes me a great deal more than its gratitude. I fully expect a roaring fire, a week of uninterrupted sleep, and a very large bottle of gin waiting for me when I return.

For two weeks, we sent letters to the diocese. We detailed the dead. We counted the infected. We begged for a man to replace Taylor.

For two weeks, the diocese answered with silence.

A letter, Gideon eventually concluded, was simply too easy to ignore. He needed someone to stand in the bishop’s hall and refuse to leave until we had a doctor. He could not spare Leon, Matthias was too meek, and Robert would take his cap off and agree with whatever the clerks told him.

Which left me.

I fought him tooth and nail, insisting that the city was a cesspit and that my leg would seize up before I made it halfway. But he waved away every excuse, offering me the mule and assuring me that the village could surely share the burden of my work until I returned.

“And what happens here whilst I’m gone?” I’d snapped at him across my counter. “The village folk can’t tell feverfew from tansy. Do you know what tansy may do to a woman carrying a child? Because they certainly do not.”

“Then draw them pictures,” Gideon had shot back. “Tie ribbons around the jars. I do not care how you manage it, Ophi, only that you do.”

He cornered me, reminding me that I was the one who had demanded a physician every single morning since we put Taylor in the ground, and that his letters had failed. Wishing for a miracle wasn’t going to conjure one out of the winter air. So, I told him to find a saddle soft enough to appease both my arse and my temper, tied ribbons around my jars, and left.

It’s a decision I’ve regretted with every bone-jarring step since dawn, but never more than I do right now.

The stupid mule throws her head up and comes to a halt. I pitch forward, a blinding bolt of pain shooting through my thigh.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” I haul myself upright with one hand gripping the pommel, waiting for the burning in my leg to subside. “What now? A terrifying leaf? A squirrel?”

I scowl over her twitching ears, ready to do battle with a shadow, but no imaginary beast blocks the road. She snorts, refusing to step past a weather-beaten marker post looming in the frost.

THE VILLAGE OF MEREWICK: NO PERSON SHOWING SIGNS OF FEVER OR SICKNESS SHALL PASS BEYOND THIS POINT

“Well, I have no fever,” I inform the mule, patting her neck. “Neither do you, unless spite has recently become a recognised symptom. Move.”

A flick of the reins does nothing; she merely flattens her ears, hooves planted as though they’ve taken root.

Begrudgingly, I ease myself down from the saddle and limp around to her front, muttering curses beneath my breath. I take the bridle in both hands. Her neck stretches forward by perhaps half an inch. Encouraged beyond reason, I pull harder. She yields one grudging step, abruptly plants her feet again, and nearly wrenches both my shoulders from their sockets.

At this rate, we shall reach the city shortly before the Second Coming.