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“Ophelia Harrow.” I press a kiss into her hair. “Whatever would I do without you?”

“Well, fortunately, you shan’t have to find out.”

She settles against my chest again, taking my hand and drawing it around her waist, and I hold her a little closer. We remain like that for a while, listening to the rain against the windows, until she eventually reaches for her tea and takes a sip.

“Bloody cold.” She wrinkles her nose.

“I shall make you another.”

“In a minute.” She sets the cup aside and tucks herself beneath my arm again. “I’m comfortable.”

33

OPHELIA

It’s been two weeks since that day on the roof, and although Iscairn still grows quiet sometimes, particularly when we pass children playing in the street, he seems much more himself. Some mornings I wake to find him sitting beside the window, lost in thoughts of his family, but he’s laughing more readily again, and yesterday I caught him humming to himself while preparing his instruments, which set moths fluttering about in my belly.

He's in equally good spirits this morning as we make our way to the market, where the last of the frost is melting between the cobbles and the early sunlight catches upon the wet stone. There's still a chill in the air, but little green shoots have appeared along the walls, and the trees in the square are showing their first buds. I even heard a blackbird singing outside our window this morning, which was a lovely change after so many months of miserable weather.

York is already bustling with people, merchants calling from their stalls as apprentices hurry between workshops, and we're passing the cooper's shop when a cart piled high with root vegetables rattles around the corner. It takes the turn so sharply that several turnips nearly tumble over the side, and Iscairn guides me towards the shopfronts with a gloved hand against my back. Once the cart has passed, he slips his hand into mine, and we continue towards the square with our leather-clad fingers comfortably entwined.

“Morning, Miss Harrow! Morning, Doctor!”

Young Matthew calls out from the butcher's doorway, pausing in his scrubbing to wipe his hands against his apron.

“Morning, Matthew!” I call back, raising my free hand while Iscairn offers one of his customary, solemn inclinations of the head.

Mrs Marchant greets us just as warmly from her doorstep, and the fishmonger calls out as we round the corner, their cheerful voices following us into the square.

Morning, Doctor. Morning, Miss Harrow.

It's become a familiar refrain wherever we go, whether we're out purchasing medicines or wandering down to the river for a little peace. We've found a lovely spot beside the water where we sometimes sit and watch the ducks, usually with a piece of sweet bread from the bakehouse for me to nibble. I no longer need to eat, of course, but I'll be damned if I'm giving up the pleasure of something delicious simply because my body can manage perfectly well without it.

I glance up at Iscairn, watching the sunlight catch along the smooth curve of his mask, and smile to myself. Three hundred years of wandering about England accidentally frightening the life out of people, and now he can hardly walk down the street without somebody wishing him a good morning.

“Do you know,” I murmur, leaning closer as we pass a stall piled high with cabbages, “I've been thinking that when we get home, perhaps you could do that thing where you bend me over the table and take me from behind. You know, with my skirts all gathered up around my⁠—”

His gloved hand clamps over my mouth before I can finish, and I burst into such helpless giggles that I nearly trip over my own feet.

“Ophelia Harrow!” He glances about us in alarm, keeping his hand firmly in place. “For heaven's sake, woman, we are in the middle of the market!”

I laugh against his palm until he finally releases me, though I can hardly get my words out for giggling.

“Oh, don't be such a prude! You weren't complaining when we were actually doing it.”

“Would you please lower your voice?”

“Morning, Doctor!”

“Good morning.” Iscairn inclines his head to the passing merchant with impeccable courtesy, though the moment we're past him, he takes my hand and draws me along at a considerably brisker pace, apparently hoping a little distance might improve my behaviour.

I wait until we're safely out of earshot before looking up at him.

“So, is that a yes, then?”

“Ophelia Harrow, you are going to be the death of me.”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous. You're already dead. Kind of.”