Page 17 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

“You look a bit pallid. Almost green about the gills, and,” she says, pointing to my hands, “you’re wearing gloves in your own kitchen.” When I say nothing, she adds, “In the summer.”

I remove my hands from the table and put them in my lap.

“I must admit, I feel a bit all-overish.” I stare out the window. It’s so bright, as if today will be a particularly hot day.

“Do you have a fever, love? Is that why I haven’t seen you in days?”

“I’m sorry, I…”

She steps closer to the table, lowering herself to look at me intently. “Don’t apologise, Mr. Balfour, this is your home. I’m only the cook. But you must know, I worry. You have hardly eaten anything this week.” She leaves for the larder. From there, her words are too muffled to hear, but once she returns, I make out, “… your favourite. That will cheer you up proper!”

Glass jars clink as she places them on the table. When Geneva uncovers the butter, it looks just as rumpled as me. Was it so hot outside that it warmed up the larder enough to soften it?

“I will boil it quickly for you just this once. Otherwise, you’ll starve to death right here in front of me. But don’t be telling anyone about it.”

She winks, looking at me with a face full of expectation. When I don’t react, she frowns, turns, and starts to cook. Was I really acting so out of sorts that even she is concerned for me?

No. It must be the heat.

Dishes clatter. Water gurgles. Geneva starts to hum a strange melody. Not a cheerful one. Dissonant and un-rhythmic, as if she were merely trying to fill the silence with anything but worry and emptiness.

Milk, rice, and spices go into a large pot sitting on the cooker.

She stirs, and she hums. The longer she cooks, the smoother her face becomes.

“Doesn’t it smell divine?” Geneva says dreamily.

Automatically, I nod in approval, unable to smell anything at all. My mind remembers, but my senses forgot.

Moments later, Geneva puts a bowl of rice pudding in front of me. Sugar and nutmeg glitter in the morning light. Steam twirls up until it dissipates into the ether. She watches me expectantly, still humming.

Mrs. Tully hands me the big spoon, the one that doesn’t fit propriety but is still my favourite. With it in hand, I start eating.

“Careful, love. You don’t want to burn yourself.”

But the pudding doesn’t burn my tongue. I can see it steaming furiously, but no signals reach me, as if my nerves were severed. I cannot taste the nutmeg, nor the sugar. The pudding is neither warm nor cold. Just a vague softness in my mouth.

I eat quickly, if only to please her. She watches me and smiles, then turns to wash the dishes while I finish eating. Her song is happier now.

“Get some rest, Mr. Balfour, you look frightfully tired.”

She removes my plate and smiles widely, but there is something off about the look on her face. It’s paler, thinner. Maybe I’m just seeing things. Her eyes dart towards my gloved hands. I stand up, folding them behind my back.

“Thank you for the pudding, Mrs. Tully,” I say, then leave the kitchen, heading towards my room.

At the top of the stairs, Godfrey meets me with a curt nod. “Your order arrived, Sir Balfour. I placed it in your study, as requested.”

“Thank you, Godfrey,” I say, heading directly there.

Two large crates sit on my desk. Another is on the floor next to it. The pale wood is marked in thick black letters reading Fragile.

I have no idea what to expect from the contents. With no knowledge or education of alchemy and other such pseudo-scientific occult topics, I had flipped from page to page, writing down a list of items. The names in the book were incredibly strange, almost as if they were conjured by someone’s too vivid imagination.

Prying the lids off with a crowbar, I step back as straw gushes out the moment the wood clatters to the floor. Like an intricate puzzle, a myriad of newspaper-wrapped bottles are neatly stacked within each crate. Dark green liquid swishes around the belly of the first one I pick up.

Bile, yellow, is handwritten on a stained label.

Once I place jar after jar in neat rows on my desk, I push the crates into a corner with my foot. A trail of straw is left behind like a flaxen accusation.