Page 35

“I don’t know. Perhaps you enjoy them. If not, there are other possibilities. A new book, perhaps. A fine woollen scarf. Silver buckles for your boots. Something carved from ivory that serves no useful purpose but looks impressive on a shelf.”

The pale beak turns towards me. “You have spent the last several minutes naming objects at random and asking whether I desire them. Why?”

Bugger.

I can hardly admit that I spent my whole dinner staring at a bowl of cold pottage, desperately trying to deduce what a demon would want from me.

“That is generally how one discovers what another person likes,” I say, tossing the last of the peas to the hens. “A well-made walking stick, then? New gloves? There must be something capable of tempting you.”

“I have no need of a walking stick, and my gloves remain functional. As for the rest, I am still uncertain as to why my preferences have suddenly become a matter of such importance to you.”

“They haven’t. I’m curious, that’s all.” I lean a little closer, lowering my voice. “How about a pouch of imported tobacco? The good stuff. Properly dried, none of that damp rubbish that tastes of chimney soot.”

His beak tilts to the side. “You are able to procure imported tobacco?”

I open my mouth to say yes, then think better of it. I haven’t actually seen any since my father managed to buy a little pouch from a travelling merchant years ago, and these days I barely have enough coin to keep the shelves stocked through winter, let alone waste it on tobacco hauled halfway across the world.

“Ah. No,” I admit, picking at a splinter in the coop. “I don’t think I can, actually.”

Iscairn huffs a laugh. “Do not trouble yourself with my needs, Ophelia Harrow. I am quite capable of seeing to them myself.” He glances down at the empty feed tin by my boots. “You might consider extending the same courtesy to your own.”

Perhaps I’m thinking too small anyway. A demon is hardly likely to cross the breadth of England for a woollen scarf and a pouch of tobacco. Perhaps he will want something with a little more substance. A favour. A promise. My firstborn child, though he’ll be waiting a bloody long time for that one.

My soul, perhaps.

Well. Now I’m just being dramatic.

I turn back to Iscairn, wiping the last of the grit from my hands. “If you are quite finished studying my poultry, Doctor, I have tinctures to bottle, and you have⁠—”

The garden gate bangs open, sending all three hens scattering for the hawthorn, and I look over.

“Afternoon, Gid,” I say. “What brings you here?”

Gideon’s jaw clenches as he barrels down the little path. He offers no greeting when he reaches the coop, nor the chance to even ask what’s got his hackles up. He grabs my upper arm and yanks me towards him.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” My heel skids through the slush as I wrench against his grip. “Gideon, let go of me.”

Deaf to my plea, he whips around and thrusts a shaking finger at Iscairn. “You are coming with me too.”

“Oh?” Iscairn says, slowly standing. “And where are we going, Brother Gideon?”

Without answering, Gideon hauls me towards the gate, moving quickly enough that my leg catches on the step and sends pain jarring into my hip. I stumble, expecting him to stop, but his grip only tightens as he drags me upright and keeps going.

“Gideon, stop. You’re hurting me.” I twist against his hold, trying to pull myself free.

“Brother,” Iscairn calls from behind us, his voice carrying easily across the garden. “You are hurting your sister.”

Gideon doesn’t even look back. He keeps hold of my arm and pulls me out into the lane, heading straight for the churchyard while I limp after him as best I can. A few doors crack open as we move past the cottages. Villagers peek out at the commotion, their pale faces framed in the narrow gaps, but the moment they register the sheer fury radiating from their holy man, the doors quietly snap shut again.

The flagellants are still gathered on the cobbles, muttering their prayers, but I barely hear them over the scrape of my boots and the fire building steadily through my thigh.

“Gideon, slow down.”

He pulls me to a stop at the foot of the church steps and finally releases my arm, turning between Iscairn and me, his face burning red. “Inside. Both of you. To the altar.”

Iscairn comes to a halt beside me. “No.”

Gideon’s face twists. “You will answer to God for what you did.”