Page 56

There’s nothing in what Ma asks for that sounds terrible on its own—herbs, a bath, warmed gin—ordinary enough things, the sort of comforts she’s ordered a hundred times before.

So why all the secrecy?

Róisín slips past me with a smile that carries no warmth and is gone before I can stop her with a question.

Then comes Ellen.

She’s not even noticed me, which is its own sort of notice; Ellen is too conscious of her surroundings to miss a man in a corridor unless her thoughts are elsewhere, and wherever they are, they’ve pulled her so far inward that the world outside her skin is secondary.

She carries a basket over her arm, her chin tucked, her shoulders tight, the whole of her moving with the restraint of someone keeping too much pressed down.

“Ellen.”

She stops like my voice has caught her by the sleeve. She doesn’t look at me.

“What is it?” I ask, keeping my voice quiet.

She draws in a breath and it trembles.

“There’s a woman here,” she says.

“Aye,” I answer quietly. “I saw that.”

The words are barely out of my mouth before Ellen stiffens, the reaction immediate and unguarded, as if my noticing has undone something she was holding together by sheer will.

“Ye’re no’ meant to be near the apothecary, James,” she snaps, the edge in her voice sharp enough to surprise us both.

“And how do you ken,” I ask calmly, “that I wasna asked to see my ma?”

Ellen’s mouth opens, then closes. Her certainty slips, leaving something more fragile in its place, and she looks away with a small, wounded sound.

“I—” She swallows. “I’m sorry. I shouldna’ve⁠—”

Her hand tightens on the basket. “I’m just—” She breaks off, shakes her head once. “I’m upset.”

The words leave too much unsaid, hanging between us as plainly as her trembling grip on the basket, as though one more question might tip her over.

I step closer, slowly enough that she could move away if she wished, but she doesn’t. She stands there, breathing shallowly, and I lift my hands and settle them on her shoulders, the contact careful, and meant only to soothe her.

Her muscles are rigid beneath my palms.

“I ken,” I say quietly. “I can sense it on you, lass.”

She exhales a shuddering breath she’s clearly been holding for too long, and some of the tension eases. Her gaze flicks past me, as if she expects someone to appear and demand answers, then she steadies herself with the effort of saying the next part.

“She came to yer ma,” Ellen says, and then her throat works around the next words. “For a tonic.”

A dozen ordinary reasons rush through my mind: a villager with a fever, a tenant with an injury, a messenger with bad news, someone who doesn’t trust the priest or the doctor or their own kin and has come instead to my ma. People do that when they’re desperate and too proud to make their intentions known.

Her voice drops another measure, soft for secrecy.

“To bring on the menses,” she says, and then, as if she can’t bear to be misunderstood, she adds in a quieter, sharper voice, “to help end what has already begun.”

“Why would she need that?” I ask, though the question itself feels like a transgression, as if it will invite an answer I’m not sure I want to carry.

Ellen’s gaze flicks away and back again, her throat working as she chooses what to give me, and when she speaks her words come clipped with anger.

“She’s barely eighteen,” Ellen says. “Forced to marry a man—” Her breath catches. “A man who—.” She can’t even finish the sentence.