* * *
What did you feel, when I gave my body to Jack Randall? Jamie had asked me.
Rage, I had said. Sickness. Horror.
I leaned against the door of the sitting room, feeling them all again. The fire had died out and the room was cold. The smell of camphorated goose grease tingled in my nostrils. It was quiet, save for the heavy rasp of breathing from the bed, and the faint sound of the wind, passing by the six-foot walls.
I knelt at the hearth and began to rebuild the fire. It had gone out completely, and I pushed back the half-burnt log and brushed the ashes away before breaking the kindling into a small heap in the center of the hearthstone. We had wood fires in Holyrood, not peat. Unfortunate, I thought; a peat fire wouldn’t have gone out so easily.
My hands shook a little, and I dropped the flint box twice before I succeeded in striking a spark. The cold, I said to myself. It was very cold in here.
Did he tell you all the things that passed between us? said Jack Randall’s mocking voice.
“All I need to know,” I muttered to myself, touching a paper spill to the tiny flame and carrying it from point to point, setting the tinder aglow in half a dozen spots. One at a time, I added small sticks, poking each one into the flame and holding it there until the fire caught. When the pile of kindling was burning merrily, I reached back and caught the end of the big log, lifting it carefully into the heart of the fire. It was pinewood; green, but with a little sap, bubbling from a split in the wood in a tiny golden bead.
Crystallized and frozen with age, it would make a drop of amber, hard and permanent as gemstone. Now, it glowed for a moment with the sudden heat, popped and exploded in a tiny shower of sparks, gone in an instant.
“All I need to know,” I whispered. Fergus’s pallet was empty; waking and finding himself cold, he had crawled off in search of a warm haven.
He was curled up in Jamie’s bed, the dark head and the red one resting side by side on the pillow, mouths slightly open as they snored peacefully together. I couldn’t help smiling at the sight, but I didn’t mean to sleep on the floor myself.
“Out you go,” I murmured to Fergus, manhandling him to the edge of the bed, and rolling him into my arms. He was light-boned and thin for a ten-year-old, but still awfully heavy. I got him to his pallet without difficulty and plunked him in, still unconscious, then came back to Jamie’s bed.
I undressed slowly, standing by the bed, looking down at him. He had turned onto his side and curled himself up against the cold. His lashes lay long and curving against his cheek; they were a deep auburn, nearly black at the tips, but a pale blond near the roots. It gave him an oddly innocent air, despite the long, straight nose and the firm lines of mouth and chin.
Clad in my chemise, I slid into bed behind him, snuggling against the wide, warm back in its woolen nightshirt. He stirred a little, coughing, and I put a hand on the curve of his hip to soothe him. He shifted, curling further and thrusting himself back against me with a small exhalation of awareness. I put my arm around his waist, my hand brushing the soft mass of his testicles. I could rouse him, I knew, sleepy as he was; it took very little to bring him standing, no more than a few firm strokes of my fingers.
I didn’t want to disturb his rest, though, and contented myself with gently patting his belly. He reached back a large hand and clumsily patted my thigh in return.
“I love you,” he muttered, half-awake.
“I know,” I said, and fell asleep at once, holding him.
39
FAMILY TIES
It was not quite a slum, but the next thing to it. I stepped gingerly aside to avoid a substantial puddle of filth, left by the emptying of chamber pots from the windows overhead, awaiting removal by the next hard rain.
Randall caught my elbow to save my slipping on the slimy cobblestones. I stiffened at the touch, and he withdrew his hand at once.
He saw my glance at the crumbling doorpost, and said defensively, “I couldn’t afford to move him to better quarters. It isn’t so bad inside.”
It wasn’t—quite. Some effort had been made at furnishing the room comfortably, at least. There was a large bowl and ewer, a sturdy table with a loaf, a cheese, and a bottle of wine upon it, and the bed was equipped with a feather mattress, and several thick quilts.
The man who lay on the mattress had thrown off the quilts, overheated by the effort of coughing, I assumed. He was quite red in the face, and the force of his coughing shook the bed frame, sturdy as it was.
I crossed to the window and threw it up, disregarding Randall’s exclamation of protest. Cold air swept into the stifling room, and the stench of unwashed flesh, unclean linen, and overflowing chamber pot lightened a bit.
The coughing gradually eased, and Alexander Randall’s flushed countenance faded to a pasty white. His lips were slightly blue, and his chest labored as he fought to recover his breath.
I glanced around the room, but didn’t see anything suitable to my purpose. I opened my medical kit and drew out a stiff sheet of parchment. It was a trifle frayed at the edges, but would still serve. I sat down on the edge of the bed, smiling as reassuringly at Alexander as I could manage.
“It was…kind of you…to come,” he said, struggling not to cough between words.
“You’ll be better in a moment,” I said. “Don’t talk, and don’t fight the cough. I’ll need to hear it.”
His shirt was unfastened already; I spread it apart to expose a shockingly sunken chest. It was nearly fleshless; the ribs were clearly visible from abdomen to clavicle. He had always been thin, but the last year’s illness had left him emaciated.
I rolled the parchment into a tube and placed one end against his chest, my ear against the other. It was a crude stethoscope, but amazingly effective.
I listened at various spots, instructing him to breathe deeply. I didn’t need to tell him to cough, poor boy.
“Roll onto your stomach for a moment.” I pulled up the shirt and listened, then tapped gently on his back, testing the resonance over both lungs. The bare flesh was clammy with sweat under my fingers.
“All right. Onto your back again. Just lie still, now, and relax. This won’t hurt at all.” I kept up the soothing talk as I checked the whites of his eyes, the swollen lymph glands in his neck, the coated tongue and inflamed tonsils.
“You’ve a touch of catarrh,” I said, patting his shoulder. “I’ll brew you something that will ease the cough. Meanwhile…” I pointed a toe distastefully at the lidded china receptacle under the bed, and glanced at the man who stood waiting by the door, back braced and rigid as though on parade.
“Get rid of that,” I ordered. Randall glared at me, but came forward and stooped to obey.
“Not out the window!” I said sharply, as he made a move toward it. “Take it downstairs.” He about-faced and left without looking at me.
Alexander drew a shallow breath as the door closed behind his brother. He smiled up at me, hazel eyes glowing in his pale face. The skin was nearly transparent, stretched tight over the bones of his face.
“You’d better hurry, before Johnny comes back. What is it?”
His dark hair was disordered by the coughing; trying to restrain the feelings it roused in me, I smoothed it for him. I didn’t want to tell him, but he clearly knew already.
“You have got catarrh. You also have tuberculosis—consumption.”
“And?”
“And congestive heart failure,” I said, meeting his eyes straight on.
“Ah. I thought…something of the kind. It flutters in my chest sometimes…like a very small bird.” He laid a hand lightly over his heart.
I couldn’t bear the look of his chest, heaving under its impossible burden, and I gently closed his shirt and fastened the tie at the neck. One long, white hand grasped mine.
“How long?” he said. His tone was light, almost unconcerned, displaying no more than a mild curiosity.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s the truth. I don’t know.”
“But not long,” he said, with certainty.
“No. Not long. Months perhaps, but almost surely less than a year.”
“Can you…stop the coughing?”
I reached for my kit. “Yes. I can help it, at least. And the heart palpitations; I can make you a digitalin extract that will help.” I found the small packet of dried foxglove leaves; it would take a little time to brew them.
“Your brother,” I said, not looking at him. “Do you want me—”
“No,” he said, definitely. One corner of his mouth curved up, and he looked so like Frank that I wanted momentarily to weep for him.
“No,” he said. “He’ll know already, I think. We’ve always…known things about each other.”
“Have you, then?” I asked, looking directly at him. He didn’t turn away from my eyes, but smiled faintly.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I know about him. It doesn’t matter.”
Oh, doesn’t it? I thought. Not to you, perhaps. Not trusting either my face or my voice, I turned away and busied myself in lighting the small alcohol lamp I carried.
“He is my brother,” the soft voice said behind me. I took a deep breath and steadied my hands to measure out the leaves.
“Yes,” I said, “at least he’s that.”