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“I did not pour it into you,” he corrects. “I merely relieved an unnecessary amount of pain which was slowing us both and making you increasingly unpleasant. It was a matter of professional peace.”
“Professional bloody peace,” I mutter, hooking both hands around the heel again and giving it another resentful pull.
The floorboards creak as Iscairn leaves the counter, and a moment later the hem of his cloak appears beside my feet. “I could have that off in half a second.”
My fingers slip from the leather as I jerk my head up, ready to curse him blue, but the slight dip of his beak towards my foot makes me hesitate.
Oh. The boot. Not my leg.
With what remains of my wounded pride, I tighten both hands around the heel. “I would rather swallow a jar of live leeches.”
I brace my right foot against the floorboards, grit my teeth and give the wretched thing one final, almighty wrench. This time the leather comes free with a damp sucking thwack that sends my arm flying backwards and my elbow straight into the edge of the counter.
A magnificent spike of pain shoots straight up to my shoulder.
“Oh, you bitch,” I hiss.
The boot drops from my hand as I clutch my throbbing elbow against my chest, steadfastly refusing to look at Iscairn. Whether I’m cursing the bloody boot or the immortal chicken’s arse standing nearby to witness my humiliation is, at this point, anyone’s guess.
Before I can decide which of them deserves it most, a shout tears up the lane.
“No! You cannot do this! Please!”
Gideon.
Another voice crashes over his, followed by the rattle of a handcart and the hurried stamp of boots through the slush.
Oh, what now? Someone dead in the lane? Another house gone over to fever? Has somebody broken quarantine? Have the Brethren started another spectacle in the square? Has Gideon finally discovered what Iscairn is and gathered the parish to drag him into the churchyard?
The stool screeches backwards as I shove myself up and snatch my cloak from the hook. I barely have it around my shoulders before I’m outside, one boot still on and the other abandoned by the counter, leaving my grey-stockinged foot to meet the icy stone. Folk are here, there, and everywhere, their figures half-lost in the thick drifts of snow, and no matter how I crane my neck, I can barely make out what’s happening.
Iscairn comes to stand behind me in the doorway, close enough that his warmth seeps through my cloak, and for one stupid second, I’m terribly tempted to lean back against him and steal as much of it as I can. He smells of cold earth and well-worn leather, with that strange, rain-soaked scent I’ve come to associate with him, so different from the smoke and winter rot hanging over Beswick that I almost forget what I came outside to see.
No, Ophelia. Shut up.
I squint into the snow as a familiar figure darts past the end of the lane, then put two fingers to my mouth and whistle. “Thomas! Oi! What’s all the fuss about?”
The boy skids to a halt and twists around, panting hard enough to send little clouds of breath into the air. “It’s the flagellants, Miss Ophelia! They’re leaving!”
In a blink, he’s already tearing off again towards the churchyard, boots slipping through the slush as he disappears between the houses.
I lean a little farther out of the doorway to watch him go, only for the cold to bite through the stocking on my left foot. Glancing down at the grey wool already darkening against the wet stone, I rub a hand over my forehead. “Iscairn, grab my boot.”
He stays silent behind me.
I close my eyes and blow out a breath through my nose. “Please grab my boot. Sorry. Thank you.”
A black-gloved hand reaches past my shoulder a moment later, the offending thing dangling from its laces. I take it from him, shove my sopping foot inside and wrestle the leather back into place before pulling my cloak tight around me.
“Come on,” I mutter, already setting off after Thomas and tying my mask. “Before Gideon snaps his own neck.”
By the time we reach the churchyard, the cobbles have been churned into grey slush beneath dozens of boots and bare feet, and the whole place has dissolved into bedlam. The wandering flagellants, who have spent the better part of a week camped outside the church and keeping everyone awake with their chanting and enthusiastic attempts to flay the skin from their own backs, are now scrambling.
Bundles are being thrown into the back of their handcart with no care for what lands where. Leather scourges disappear beneath blankets and filthy reliquaries, while men with blood still dried between their shoulder blades stumble over one another in their haste to gather whatever they brought with them. Some pray loudly enough to be heard above the rest; others shout over one another, and one appears to have abandoned language altogether in favour of making the same shrill noise every few breaths.
Naturally, half of Beswick has come to watch.
I cannot pretend their departure breaks my heart. Since arriving, they have bled on the church steps, frightened the children and spent every night making such a miserable racket that I’ve considered smothering several of them myself simply for the chance of uninterrupted sleep. Still. Men willing to split their own backs open in the name of God don’t generally scatter at the first sign of trouble.
