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And the colours. Christ, the colours. The flames are so bright that I can see every shade of orange dancing across the stone, and the blood on Iscairn’s lips is a deeper black than anything I have ever seen.

“Oh, God.” I squeeze my eyes shut, but even through my eyelids the torchlight is unbearable. “What's happening?”

“We must leave.” Iscairn's voice is barely recognisable, his words breaking around each breath as he gathers me towards him. “Ophelia, we have to get out of the church.”

“But I can breathe,” I whisper. “Iscairn, I can actually⁠—”

“I know.” His hand slips beneath my back, drawing me against his chest as another shudder passes through him. Smoke is still rising from his collar, and the bare skin of his arm blisters where it touches the stone. “I know, but please, we cannot stay here.”

He struggles to lift me, and I clutch at his cloak as the floor falls away beneath my feet. His breathing is so loud against my ear, every ragged catch tearing through his throat, while the noise around us swells until I can hardly bear it. I squeeze my eyes shut, but even the darkness seems to move, leaving me dizzy and clinging to him.

“Stay awake,” he whispers, his lips brushing my temple. “Ophelia, just until⁠—”

26

OPHELIA

Ishould be dead.

I think I am dead.

I gather my shift and slip a hand beneath it, pressing my fingers against the inside of my thigh where the bubo had swollen almost to the size of my palm.

Nothing.

I search a little higher, feeling for the wound I'd made with that filthy coffin nail, but there's nothing beneath my fingers except smooth, unbroken skin. Not even a bloody scab. The buboes beneath my arms have vanished too, leaving nothing behind. Then I feel against my breastbone. There's a heartbeat, though I have to hold my hand quite still to find it. A faint little flutter beneath my ribs, followed by such a long silence that I press harder, waiting for another.

Oh, come on. Surely that's not all it's doing?

Eventually, another beat comes, so feeble it’s barely a whisper. Then I draw a breath and hold it, waiting for the pestilence to rattle my chest. The air stays where it is, and when I finally let it out, I feel… fine.

Well, I'll be damned.

Quite literally, according to Gideon.

My eyes wander over the hay piled almost to the rafters and the battered wooden trough standing beside a stall that hasn't seen an animal in some time.

A barn.

I'm in somebody's bloody barn.

The last thing I remember is the crypt, the cold flagstones beneath my back and Iscairn's mouth pressed against mine while the blue burned its way through my chest…

Billy Mercer. His soul.

Well, bollocks.

A sudden knock against the barn door makes me jump.

“Hello?” comes a quiet voice from the other side of the door. “Are you awake in there? I've brought you some er… would you, er... would you like some ale?”

Ale? What an extraordinary thing to offer a woman first thing in the morning. Although, given the circumstances, I suppose I wouldn't say no to a drink.

There's something familiar about the voice, though I can't quite place it, and before I can think of a suitable answer, the door creaks open. A draught sweeps through the barn, carrying the smell of frost and damp earth, and I hear someone shuffling cautiously across the straw on the other side of the wooden beam I’m sat behind.

Now, I may not know how I got here, but I'm certainly not about to let some strange man creep up on me while I'm sitting in my shift.

I scramble to my feet and look around for something to defend myself with, eventually spotting a pitchfork propped against the nearest wall. It comes away so easily that I nearly send the prongs straight through the thatch, and I have to catch the handle before it swings out of my hands.