Page 24 of Adam, Mine

The lock was undone. Elias passed silently into this place like a ghost, pressing the door closed behind him. He closed his eyes and stood very still, listening. He could hear a thin rattle, the hiss of Franz trying to breathe beyond the fluid in his lungs.

Elias hung his head from shame.

Franz wasn’t rich, but he wasn’t poor. He had two horses, never needed to beg for bread, spent many wonderful hours in the tavern telling stories about the people he met in the big cities. He tipped the family well, gave alms to the poor at church and on holidays.

This was a good man.

Weak, starving, and dying.

His kitchen was stocked well, dried garlic and venison, pickled vegetables, grain. It was clear that he had been able to cook for himself all the way up to the very end. Elias wondered how long he had been lying in that bed with all of this just outside his reach.

Elias’s hands still hurt terribly, but he put logs in Franz’s hearth and started a fire.

Elias had cooked all his life. He knew how to make anything taste rich, even scraps such as these. The tavern had gone through lean times before, but they never stopped serving, and people never stopped coming to eat from his hands.

Barley, herbs, and dry carrots, deer fat, and salt from the sea. A nip of brandy that looked as though it were being saved for celebration. Elias poured it into a stone bowl.

He couldn’t stand unclothed before this man he respected. But all there was to choose from was Franz’s coat hung up by the door. Franz was shorter than Elias, but it was enough to cover him. Elias took a deep breath and held it, then he went deeper into the house to find the carriage driver.

Franz was lying on the floor, halfway to bed, arm outstretched. With a thrum of fear, Elias placed the bowl on Franz’s bedside table and rushed to his aid. The old man wheezed with terror, eyes rolling at whatever he saw that remained of Elias, but he was too burdened to shout or make any noise to save himself.

Elias was slight, but he was strong. He lifted Franz and rolled him onto the bed. Franz smacked at him weakly, making a terrible choking sound in his hysteria, but Elias ignored it, pulling the quilt over his legs and tucking it in beneath him.

He snatched the bowl from the table and pressed it into his hands.

Franz, pushed up against the wall, trying to get as far from Elias as possible, cradled the bowl in confusion. Elias left the room to retrieve the brandy.

When he returned, Franz had eaten a quarter of the soup, bowl pressed to his mouth, the spoon neglected beside him on the bed.

He still looked exceptionally frightened, but now surrounding that fear was suspicion. Elias stretched out his ruined and peeling arm and handed Franz the bottle.

Franz gently took it, staring openly at Elias’s face and his own coat.

Elias couldn’t explain, and more, he didn’t have time to. Instead, he turned away from Franz and began rifling through his things. He picked out Franz’s best suit, hat, and shirt. Clothes he’d only ever seen Franz wear at Christmastime.

Franz watched, drinking the soup, and said nothing.

He could do nothing as Elias took his pocket watch, tiepin, and wool socks. Elias found a warm shawl that had likely belonged to Franz’s late wife. He turned to Franz and held it up. Franz shook his head, breathing hard. Not that. Elias placed it back on the rack.

Clothes in hand, he turned to Franz and pulled at the sheets beneath his quilt, motioning toward them. With great effort, Franz moved his legs so Elias could get at them, but Elias shook his head. He needed fresh ones, not ones coated in the sweat of the ill.

Franz thought for a moment, then pointed into the hall. Elias found fresh sheets in a cupboard right outside the room.

He returned, took the empty bowl from Franz’s hand, and removed the reeking chamber pot from beneath his bed. Replaced it with a clean stewing cauldron.

He brought the covers up to Franz’s chest once again and pressed a tender hand to Franz’s forehead. Franz looked hard at him, but Elias still did not see the glow of recognition. Elias grimaced, turning to leave, but Franz reached out a hand to claw at the drawer beside him. Eyes bright and insistent. Elias opened the drawer. Franz tapped the inside, then reached out to Elias’s arm before losing strength and settling back to the bed.

Elias removed the folded paper money and held it up. Franz nodded and then he closed his eyes, shifting toward the wall to sleep.

“I’m sorry,” Elias tried to say. “Thank you.” He tried harder, but nothing resembling that came out of his mouth.

So he pressed the money to his chest, bowed his head just the once. Then closed the carriage driver in his tomb.

Speed

Elias cut the sheets into strips, boiled them, and dressed his wounds. Splashing them with rotgut spirits while he chewed through Franz’s jerky.

Whatever it was that he looked like wasn’t going to get him anywhere good, and an explanation wasn’t available. But a smartly dressed leper could walk the streets. A suit in the distance remains unmolested, and Elias needed that now.