Page 76

Perhaps I pushed myself rather further than I realised. That would certainly explain the dreaming.

I am four jars into refilling her comfrey when the floorboards creak overhead, followed by a dull thump that suggests Ophelia has walked into the corner of her bed again. I smile to myself as her footsteps make their way towards the stairs, sweeping the last of the crushed comfrey into the jar before pressing the stopper firmly into place.

“Ah, you are awake,” I say, setting the jar amongst the others as she appears in the doorway. “Good morning, Ophelia Harrow.”

She gives me a sour look as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, though there is not enough wakefulness in it yet to carry much force. Her brown hair hangs loose around her shoulders, still damp in places from washing, and several strands have dried in directions that suggest she made no particular effort to persuade them otherwise. She pushes them back with the heel of her hand as she crosses the shop, only for one stubborn curl to escape and settle against her cheek.

She pays it no mind, being far too occupied with reaching for the kettle while muttering a rather impressive collection of obscenities concerning my audacity in rearranging her shop without permission.

The curl, meanwhile, remains exactly where it is.

I leave the jars behind and cross to where she stands, leaning down beside her to catch the offending curl with the smooth tip of my beak and gently brush it away from her cheek.

She stops halfway to a cup and glares up at me. “You just moved my hair with your mask.”

“It was in your face.”

“You have hands.”

My breath warms the inside of my mask as I chuckle. “I know.”

With a huff, she turns back to the kettle and reaches for the little jar of cardamom beside it. I had intended to make those pods last—remnants of Damascus are not easily replaced in England, let alone a little parish in Lancashire. I had expected sharing them to bother me, yet I do believe I am enjoying it.

“How many?” she asks as she pours the water.

She does not need to clarify what she means.

I straighten and fold my hands at the small of my back. “Three. The Statton boy, eventually. And the Craggs from the lane behind the forge. They are already at the pit, ready for today’s burial.”

She nods and sets the spoon aside, though her jaw tightens as her fingers rise towards the base of her throat. Her nails drag across the skin just beneath her collarbone, and she lets out a small breath of irritation before doing it again.

She scratched at the same place no fewer than four times yesterday.

When her fingers lift for another pass, I step in and catch her wrist before her nails reach the skin. She looks up at me, startled, while I draw her hand aside and use the other to pull the edge of her collar down just far enough to see under it.

There, just below the bone, sits a small red welt surrounded by skin she has already worried raw.

“A flea,” I tell her. “And if you continue clawing at it, you will turn an irritation into something considerably less pleasant.”

She tuts and tries to pull her hand back. “It’s only an itch.”

“And you are an apothecary. I should hope you know better.” I release her wrist and nod towards the stool. “Sit down. We have chamomile.”

I fetch the small pot of chamomile and elder from the shelf behind me. Moving to her side, I strip the glove from my right hand and drop the leather onto the counter. My bare fingertips catch the edge of her shift, drawing the rough linen down just enough to expose the bite.

She hisses as I spread the cool salve over the welt, her shoulders drawing in slightly beneath my hand.

“Hold still,” I mutter.

“I am holding still,” she snaps.

I ignore her and smooth another small amount over the reddened skin, working it carefully towards the edge where her nails have already broken the surface. My thumb settles into the hollow at the base of her throat while I finish. Beneath the skin, her pulse gives a quick, stubborn flutter, and the sensation drags my mind immediately back to last night.

She winces, shifting on the stool. “Your hands are cold.”

“No. You are just very warm,” I reply, though as my thumb lingers, I pause. “Perhaps a little too warm, actually.”

She swats my hand away, dragging her collar back into place. “Of course I’m warm. I’m sitting two inches from a fire and drinking boiling tea. Stop fussing like an old grandmother.”