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“I will bear the consequences with courage.”

Of course he will.

I tuck the empty scrap of shell into my pocket and settle back against him. If he’s determined to ignore every demand that I be returned to the ground, I may as well make some use of it. The lower track stretches ahead in its usual miserable mixture of frost and churned mud, but for once I haven’t the slightest obligation to struggle through it. Iscairn carries me over the worst of the ruts without breaking stride, and by the time we’ve passed the next field, the ache that had been pulling from my knee into my hip has eased enough that I’m beginning to feel rather comfortable.

A pleasant warmth blooms through me, too, which I put down to being tucked against him beneath all that wool and leather. Except it keeps spreading, right down into my cold fingers, until the wind against my face hardly bothers me at all. My head grows heavier against his chest with the steady rhythm of his steps, and somewhere along the way I lose interest in how much farther we have to go.

There’s something familiar about this…

As my thoughts drift into syrup, the memory of the road from Merewick flits unbidden through my mind.

I force my eyes open.

Pale blue motes are drifting across his cloak.

Oh.

Oh, that bastard.

I manage to haul my head up just far enough to glare blearily at the edge of his beak. “You’re using soulglimmer⁠—”

14

DOCTOR ISCAIRN

By morning, she should be considerably less sore.

Thankfully, I have several hours before I am required to answer for using the soulglimmer on her, and for standing in the one room she expressly forbade me from entering. I expect accusations. There will almost certainly be shouting. And perhaps, if fortune is especially unkind, that iron poker she insists is a cane will finally be put to the purpose for which she was very obviously holding it.

I look down at her where she lies snoring softly, one arm flung above her head and her hair spread untidily across the pillow, then let my gaze drift lower to the mud stiffening around the hem of her skirts and the boots still crusted from the moor. I ought to remove them. She will be irritated enough when she wakes without discovering half the road ground into her blankets as well.

But if she opens her eyes to find her boots gone, I suspect the mud will become the least of my concerns, particularly if she decides I have taken any liberties with the skirts covering the very leg she forbade me from touching.

Whatever explanation I offer will likely die very quickly beneath accusations of a wholly different nature. So the boots can stay.

I draw the quilt up from the foot of the bed, dragging it over the offending boots and pulling it to her throat. I tuck the edges meticulously against the mattress, sealing out the draught that works its way through the shuttered window.

"Sleep well, apothecary," I murmur.

I leave a kettle of fresh water beside the hearth, anticipating the thirst that will inevitably follow the glimmer’s work, then step backwards into the dark.

The apothecary will remain undisturbed until dawn.

I, however, have business to attend to.

No sickrooms require my attention tonight, so I slip back into the moonlight and make my way through the sleeping village, cutting between shuttered houses and empty lanes until the roofs thin, and the silhouette of the old mill rises against the fields.

Usually, I hear William before I see the well, though never from more than a few yards off. The village is half a mile behind me, the mill is empty, and I saw no reason to let his noise carry where a shepherd might wander into it, so whatever he does down there climbs the shaft and stops at the rim.

For the past several nights, he has barely stopped. He shouts until his voice cracks, then spends a while snivelling and begging to be let out before remembering he hates me and threatening what he will do once he gets his hands on me.

Tonight, though, there is nothing. For once, the moss-furred stone beside the path sits in complete silence, with none of William’s usual shouting carrying up through the earth. I slow as I approach, lift the satchel from my shoulder, and set it quietly on the grass.

That is unusual.

I hook my fingers beneath the leather ties at the nape of my neck and work them loose, easing the bone mask away from my face. The wide-brimmed hat comes next, and I set it carefully upon a flat stretch of stone at the edge of the well where the moss will not ruin the felt.

The skin beneath the mask is slick with sweat, and the first touch of cool air against it is so welcome that my eyes nearly roll back. The breeze moves over the scars along my jaw and slips into the hair clinging to my scalp. I rake a gloved hand through the thick, dark lengths, sweeping them back from my neck and temples before closing my eyes and drawing a long breath through my nose.