Page 5 of Beecham’s Infirmary for the Affluent Afflicted (My Darling Malady #1)

IN WHICH RICE PORRIDGE IS HAD—THUS, I FORGET MYSELF, MY PURPOSE, AND THE FUNCTION OF BUTTONS

T he sun has retreated behind the clouds, blanketing the streets in their usual grey pallor.

It feels tighter here. The crowds no longer thrum with life, everyone eager to retire to their beds.

I hold my breath around the hacking, fighting the urge to press my sleeve to my face and keep the bad air out.

Now, all there is to do is wait. Through my headache and churning stomach, I wonder if risking my life over this case is worth it.

The woman leading me fearlessly through the crowd sure seems to think so.

My worries fade when we turn onto a different street—the Limehouse Causeway.

The grey and glum buildings are peppered with vibrant red and green shop signs, some with striking characters painted in gold.

Alleyways narrow, as do the buildings that pave the cobblestone road.

Laundry lines hang from window to window, their garments fluttering like flags in the breeze.

From one of the second-floor windows, the aroma of stewing fish intertwines pleasantly with the scent of brine .

We must be near the docks. My stomach lurches again. Merde , I’m starving.

Annie slows to a halt in front of a shop with Chinese lettering painted above the first-floor window, which is slightly fogged. An array of glass bottles and jars are visible just inside.

“Wait out here, okay?”

I nod, but a weathered yet sharp voice snaps from within, causing the both of us to jump.

“Bring him!”

Annie turns red and gives me a reassuring smile, the first she’s offered me since our meeting. She beckons me in and vanishes between two towering cupboards; I try my hardest to follow, fearful of upsetting any of the hundreds of ingredient bottles, or the mysterious source of the rasping voice.

We’re engulfed by the rich aromas of more anise, maybe something like fresh satsumas, and whatever else is ground up in these jars.

The array of cupboards opens up into a back room rainbowed in the same shade of brilliant red, silvers, bronzes, and gold dappled with green. Red is evidently significant here, but all it reminds me of is the woman hacking blood into her napkin.

“Amah, this is Jacques.” Annie sounds flustered. “Jacques, this is my grandmother, Joy. And this is her spice shop.”

Spice shop seems too inadequate a term for the array of bottles and sachets that surround me.

As I emerge from between the shelves, she’s hugging what appears to be a mound of shawls, but when she pulls back, there’s a tiny woman wrapped in fabric there.

Amah smiles warmly, but once her eyes fall upon me—probably my pallor—they widen. “What did you do?” The old woman’s accented voice is sharp .

I freeze, even if the question is for her granddaughter.

“You told me to bring him in.” Annie begins to fidget with her collar, loosening it. The power shift in the room is palpable.

“Good evening,” I offer, stepping forward. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I’d like to shake her hand, but think better of it.

Amah frowns at Annie, already moving about the room—away from me. “Is he yours?”

“Yes. I mean, no, he’s a work acquaintance.”

Amah points at a round wooden table in the corner, where a glass aquarium sits in the middle, just big enough for two. “Come,” she directs me. “You look hungry.”

“No,” Annie insists as I shake my head despite my hunger. “We need a favor.”

“I’m not talking to you,” her grandmother snaps. Her assessing eyes lock onto me, narrowing distrustfully. The apple does not fall far from its tree here. “Sit.”

I saunter across the room and sit at the table, where a pair of goldfish peek out at me from the reeds.

“Jacques was caught in the rain on his walk home from work last night,” Annie continues. “Might you have anything for him? To ensure he stays well, or anything that develops remains mild. He’s afraid a cough will develop.”

“Medicine.”

As Annie nods, her grandmother studies me.

Grunting, Amah opens and disappears into the door behind her, and I’m immediately hit with the aromas of garlic, onion, and ginger before it slams shut. My stomach growls so loudly, I’m sure Annie can hear it.

But she’s busy exhaling, removing her gloves with her teeth and offering nothing consoling, or even insulting. Her heels remain grounded across the room, and I wonder if she’s regretting her decision of bringing me home. Or thinking about those shears in her pocket.

The door swings open, and Amah returns with two steaming bowls. She places them down, one before me and the other, at the vacant chair. Annie doesn’t wait for Amah to beckon her over, and she’s sitting on my right when the old woman holds her hand out to me expectantly.

I’m about to reach for the coins in my pocket, when she roughly grabs my left palm.

“Amah!”

“ Quiet , Annabelle.” Amah positions herself over my palm and peers closely at it. There’s far more strength in her weathered hands than appearance suggests. She lets go and turns my face this way and that in her pincer-like grip. The lines at her mouth vanish beneath a tight, unreadable smile.

Annie blows on a spoonful of steaming broth, the rising scents of anise and spring onion doing little to mask her discomfort. “What is it?”

Amah appears satisfied as she releases me, but the fact that Annie has to ask unnerves me. She’s read something in her grandmother’s expression.

“There are certain illnesses that don’t just weaken the body, but stir up whatever’s waiting underneath. Medicine will not help what is becoming.” The old woman gestures to the broth. “But filling the belly might slow it.”

Without further explanation, she turns away and disappears into the front of the shop, her slippers whispering against the floorboards.

Don’t get me wrong—Annie is a mad genius for suggesting I fall ill, then seek early treatment at her grandmother’s to prevent the worst of it before going to the infirmary.

I’ll look back upon this eve in impressed fondness one day when the rush of blood to my face doesn’t worsen the pain in my head .

“Looks like I caught it.”

“Eat,” is all Annie says, scraping around her bowl. She’s determined to appear unconcerned, and I can’t tell if it’s for her benefit or mine. “Hunger won’t do you any good. Amah’s food is also medicine, especially jūk . It’s what she says all the time.”

She is right, after all. The broth is delicious, thickened with glutinous rice and thinly sliced ginger. Palpable warmth begins to spread throughout my body. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever had.

The last mouthful leaves a trace of lingering heat down my throat, and I feel suddenly sluggish. The ache behind my eyes has dulled.

I blink at the fish. They blink back.

My bowl’s empty. Amah is gone. The shop is warm, and its scents lull me against the back of my chair.

Annie’s still beside me, pushing the dregs of ginger around her bowl, though I’m not sure she’s eaten anything for minutes. She sneaks glances at me from behind a wave of hair, backlit in the last rays of apricot dusk filtering through the shelves. Her lips part, like she might say something.

Instead, there’s the scrape of wood. A chair moving, a breath too close to my shoulder, and the scent of jasmine. “Jacques?”

Wet fabric clings to my spine and I suddenly realize I’m sweating—drenched, as if I’d been running. I need to stand, to rouse myself, but my limbs are much too heavy to lift.

“You’re burning,” she utters, and I feel the back of her fingers against my forehead.

“I’m just tired,” I say, or try to say, but the words slur at the edges. The room is tilting. There’s a distant clatter… then, I’m moving.

There are arms under mine, my own feet barely supporting my weight. Wool against my thin shirt—a hallway, then a narrow stair.

Her breath hitches, soft curses in Chinese. My head rolls against her shoulder before everything folds inward.

For the first time in over thirty days, my sleep is not impeded by nightmares of my father vomiting blood as the men who swarm us stab him repeatedly with a wooden bayonet. Run , he gargles, just before I wake up.

But the world here is dim, and Annie the seamstress is on my lips, my tongue, my fingers. On my still-pounding teeth, although the pain in my temples has been since replaced by a dull headache.

“I can smell you,” I groan. “Everywhere.” What an odd thing to say, yet it is the first thing that escapes my mouth.

I might’ve dreamt it. Hopefully that was the case.

“Well, you have been sleeping in my bed.”

My eyes open, and I turn on my side to feel for her.

Annie isn’t there, but at the foot of the bed I’m cocooned upon, perched on what appears to be a large trunk.

Her coat hangs on the rack near the door in the corner of the room.

A bundle of fabric is on her lap, and her tiny fingers work fluidly with a needle and thread.

There’s a mirror to her right, propped diagonally from the corner and looking into the room.

“How long?” I peer out the window behind me. It’s dark, and the lamps are on, but the streets aren’t nearly as empty as I’d expect them to be closer to midnight.

“Three hours.”

I sit up, and it’s at this moment I realize I’m shirtless. “What are you doing?”

“You asked for pants earlier in the shop. Here they are. ”

I run my hand across my bare torso, no longer wet or fevered. I’m wearing only my drawers beneath the thick blanket, which I pull further up to keep myself decent as I shrink back into her pillows.

“Don’t worry. Amah took care of you.”

“How comforting.”

“You fell asleep in your bowl of jūk .” She withholds a laugh. “Spilt half of it all over your crotch.”

“I finished the bowl. It was delicious.”

“No, you had a few bites then passed out.”

I rub my eyes, not about to argue. If she’s right, it’s probably why I’m still starving. Despite the acid eating my stomach, I feel rejuvenated by the sleep. Strong.