“It is.”
“Except with warts.”
“Mmm. Warts, spiders, and children.”
He frowned. “Warts and spiders I understand, but children?”
“I don’t know what to do with them. I get nervous.”
“Ah. Now that’s a sentiment I can share.”
She touched her hand, the bandage. Then she looked him once over. “The villagers have been calling you ‘Doctor Death.’ But that isn’t your real name, of course.”
“No. My name is Luther.”
“Luther,” she said. He liked the sound of it in her voice. He imagined she could make most things sound better just by being the one to say them. “How can I repay you?”
He wanted to say not to worry, that it hadn’t exactly been a difficult diagnosis or remedy and he’d been happy to do it, but he was a consummate professional, and he didn’t want her to take the gesture in a way that might make him seem otherwise.
“I’m afraid I don’t travel with much in the way of clothing,” he said, “but I have been meaning to purchase a new shirt. Something simple that won’t wear out quickly. If it wouldn’t be too much to ask.”
“Not at all.” She smiled. “I’ll just need to take some measurements.”
He stood in the middle of the small cottage while she measured his torso, shoulders, and arms. Hilda was by no means a small woman—she easily filled the cottage on her own—but the doctor had to duck to keep his head from hitting the beams. Hilda teased him about this, which he found he liked; people were usually too intimidated by him to tease him about anything. She touched him only lightly, fleeting brushes to prompt him to lift his arms, but even the lightest pressure seemed to leave a ghost imprint on his skin.
She told him she would have the shirt ready for him before he left town. That thought brought him down from the floating sense of contentment he’d felt since entering Greymist Fair, but he knew he had to go. He could feel Death growing impatient with his lingering, though he had stayed much longer in other places and Death had not minded. It didn’t make sense to the doctor: the people of Greymist Fair died like the people anywhere else, and Death still took them, but Death either would not or could not visit the village willingly.
Hilda met him at the inn on the day he was to depart and presented him with the new shirt. It was a deep black and fit him perfectly.
“I prefer bright colors myself,” she said, “but I thought you would appreciate black to go with all your black.”
He had been more surprised and pleased with the shirt than he had expected, and he was so busy thanking her he almost missed it when she said, “If you like it so much, come visit me next time you pass through. I’ll make you something else.”
The invitation was enough to send him on his way. The sooner he left, the sooner he could return. He knew he would; Greymist Fair had become the magnetic north of his mind, and his internal compass would swivel toward it no matter where he went. The villagers bid him to return soon, and he assured them he would.
Death greeted him in the forest.
“That place will capture you and never let you go,” said Death.
“That doesn’t seem like such a poor fate,” replied the doctor.
“I am not welcome there,” said Death. “The villagers are cruel.”
“They seemed lovely to me. Is that why you make the forest so dangerous for them? Because they don’t welcome you? What makes them different from anyone else who fears you?”
“This is my home,” Death said. “They are supposed to be my people.”
“Perhaps if you approached them as a friend rather than an enemy, they wouldn’t fear you so much.”
Death looked away.
“I didn’t know you could be so juvenile,” said the doctor, and continued down the road.
He came back as he promised he would. The villagers warmly welcomed him and sought his care for their injuries and sicknesses. There were rarely any mortal illnesses when he visited, though when there were, Death appeared at the end of the bed, almost spiteful. It was the only time Death appeared in the village.
But those brief times of sadness never tainted the relief the doctor felt when he returned to Greymist Fair. He had never settled anywhere in his life, but sometimes when he was in the village, he found himself slipping into a routine that would mean settling if he continued it long enough. The villagers, though wary of him, wanted him there and appreciated his services, and he wanted to be there and to serve.
But each time he told himself that this was theonlyreason he came back, he was lying. His first thought was always of Hilda. After he arrived, got his room at the inn, and took care of any urgent medical issues, he went to see her. She would make tea and fill him in on the goings-on of the village, and he would tell her about his travels. A year and a half after his first visit, heknew where everything was in her cottage and was able to make the tea himself while she took a break from her work and watched him. He would help her with anything she needed, whether that was an aching tooth or a hole in her roof, and in return she made him a new article of clothing, always black. After three years, she’d made him a shirt, pants, gloves, boots, a coat, and—as a joke that had Hilda rolling on the floor with laughter at the expression on his face—a pair of black undergarments.
