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“Ophelia—”

“No. You opened that door beneath the authority of this church. You may close it beneath the same.”

“I wasn’t going to refuse.” He rubs his thumb over his knuckles. “Is David likely to survive?”

“I don’t know. The sickness is already in his blood.”

“Then I shall commend him to the Lord and pray that, in His mercy, He sees fit to spare him.”

I bite back a groan. “See that you do.”

Before he can discover anything else in need of prayer whilst I’m within reach, I make for the doors, retrieve my basket, and descend the steps towards Iscairn, who hasn’t moved an inch.

“Did you get what you wanted?” he asks.

I pull my cloak tighter beneath my chin and turn towards the gate. “He apologised, eventually. And he agreed to listen regarding quarantine. And now I am going to find something to eat before I become unpleasant.” My stomach growls miserably. “Oh, I’d kill for a pasty. No, no. I would sell my brother to the French for a pasty.”

“A what?”

I look up at him. “A pasty.”

His head tilts expectantly.

“Meat,” I say, cupping my hands around an imaginary one as we walk. “Mutton, preferably. Gravy. Onion, if whoever made it possesses both good sense and generosity. All sealed inside pastry so you can carry it about and eat it without involving a plate.” When he continues staring at me through those amber lenses, my hands slowly fall. “Please tell me this is your first attempt at a jest.”

“I do not jest. I am unfamiliar with the dish.”

“Then what on earth have you been eating all these years? Roots and misery?” I look him up and down. “You don’t grow that bloody tall on fresh air.”

“I eat what is necessary to sustain me. The rest is unnecessary.”

I have half a mind to tell him what a boring way that is to live, but my stomach gives an ugly growl before I can manage it. Describing a pasty has proved a catastrophic mistake, and I quicken my pace towards home before I start hallucinating one in the frost.

I manage perhaps another twenty yards before my left leg decides it has contributed quite enough to the day. A sharp twinge catches behind my thigh, and when my boot snags in a frozen rut, my ankle cruckles beneath me so badly that I pitch forwards, my basket swinging wildly from my elbow as the road rushes up to meet me. Before I can hit the ground, a gloved hand closes around my arm and hauls me upright.

“Thank you,” I mutter, dragging the offending leg properly beneath me. “I appear to be walking with all the grace of a sack of grain today.”

“That is rather unkind to the grain,” he remarks. “It has done nothing to deserve such a comparison.”

I stare at him, then burst out laughing, but he’s already released my arm and continued down the road as though he hasn’t said anything remarkable.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” I hurry after him. “You told me not two minutes ago that you don’t jest!”

“And I do not. I merely made an observation.”

I narrow my eyes at the back of his ridiculous hat.

Liar.

By the time we reach the fork beside the cooper’s yard, my shop is only a short walk ahead, whilst the lane towards Doctor Taylor’s cottage bends away towards the church. I expect him to take it. He does not. He walks straight past.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“With you. The linen in your basket must be boiled. You will also require clean bandages for Fletcher when we return this evening.”

Just what I needed—a morning’s worth of plague-soaked cloth to boil on top of everything else.

“No,” I say. “At present, I require something hot in my stomach and a chair so I can rest.”