Page 9 of Beecham’s Infirmary for the Affluent Afflicted (My Darling Malady #1)

IN WHICH GOODBYE TASTES LIKE BLOOD AND THE STREETS OF LONDON WAIT WITH BATED brEATH

I n the early hours of morning, a sense of foreboding lures me from the sweetest slumber. The room smells faintly of sweat and blood—and smoke, as if a tail of incense wafts somewhere downstairs. Outside, the early light has yet to press fully into the town, leaving everything dipped in dim blue.

Even Annie, curled next to me with her arm under her cheek, facing the window. Her hair is strewn across her face, stuck to her forehead in sweat, and I reach out to sweep it off.

But, as my hand ghosts her flushed skin, I hesitate, so as not to wake her.

Because for a moment last night, I’d wholeheartedly believed her.

Believed I could vanish into London’s folds of chimney and cobblestone and disappear with her.

That the past—the blood, the cases, my father, and the strange hungers stirring awake within my bones—could all be forgotten.

And I believe it now, until I sit up and a terrible chill ghosts my back. The blankets below me are soaked . It feels like I’ve dumped an entire kettle there. There’s a slight ache to my joints, a distant throb in my gums; other than that, I don’t feel anything out of the ordinary, otherwise.

But under my sweat-slicked skin, the fever must be raging.

I glance down at Annie, truly worried I’d doomed her to the same fate. I’m about to touch her again—feel her, perhaps even rouse her and express my concerns—when there’s a soft knock at the door.

Stumbling out of bed, I tug on my trousers, making enough noise to signal that someone was getting up to answer.

I don my undershirt and run my hand though my hair, flattening it, trying to look anything like we’d made love last night—and pull the door open.

Annie’s grandmother stands at the threshold, wrapped in her shawls.

In her gnarled, steady hands, is a small lacquered box.

“Good morning, Amah.” I do a terrible job at forcing the sleep from my voice.

“For the blood,” she says simply, holding the box out to me. She pops the lid back, revealing two bags stacked upon each other. “Not to feed it, but to cool it. Guī bǎn , bái sháo , and dān shēn .” Amah prods the one on top containing a coarse, light brown powder.

“To cool my blood,” I repeat, aware of how idiotic I must sound. She is obviously well-versed in her area of medicine. “Anything to warm it?”

I half mean it as a joke, but Amah’s eyes twinkle in the lamplight.

She lifts that first bag up, and there’s a second underneath.

“This,” she says, prodding the bottom bag.

It looks like a paste of ground herbs. “To give you strength when the cold tries to break you. Fùzǐ , Diānqié , and Ginger Root. Balances the fire in your soul.”

I know nothing of botany; of all the herbs named, I’m only familiar with last. In fact, I’d had my fair share of it last night in that delicious broth. But I trust her. I have no other choice.

Before I can accept them, I begin to feel the fever crawling like a snake beneath my skin. I make to retreat, fearful of the symptoms returning or worsening.

I want to run, to go back to Annie.

But Amah remains, expectantly studying me. “You came to this town for answers, didn’t you? Beecham has them.”

How could she have known? Annie must’ve explained everything to her.

“Amah,” I say, every bit of reverence and worry I feel evident in my low voice. “My main concern is Annie. Has she… have I passed this onto her?”

“No. Anything she’s dealing with is on the surface, a lingering heat that I can help cool here. I will care for her.” Amah regards her snoring granddaughter from the doorway. “But what’s inside you won’t respond to medicine alone.”

My stomach coils, my mouth dry. I nod, my fingers wrapping tightly around the two bundles.

“If you stay, you’ll only delay what’s already begun. If you do go…” Her gaze lifts to the window, and the waking town beyond. “You’ll save her, and so many more.”

I stand at the edge of the bed and take one last look at her.

Annie lies tangled in the blankets, one arm draped across her ribs. She looks young like this. Softened, unguarded when she sleeps. The fever hasn’t touched her face yet. Or maybe it has, and I just don’t want to see it.

I want to stay. God, I do. But something deep within me needs to see this through, to get better for her.

To find answers for the Wharncliffes. We’ll have that day together at St Paul’s, but for now, answers and a cure await me.

I bend down, press my lips to her temple, and breathe her in.

Jasmine, sin, and the sweet edge of blood.

“I’ll come back for you. Even if I have to claw my way.”

She stirs against me but doesn’t wake.

I take one last look about the room, the weight of Amah’s herbs solid in my pocket, and step into the hall. Amah is waiting by the stairwell, arms folded, shawl wrapped tight around her. She doesn’t say anything. Just nods once, dutifully guarding her granddaughter’s door.

I descend the stairs slowly, boots against wood the only sound in the entire house, every step pulling me further from the night I’d like to hold onto.

At the bottom, a long table holds the incense I’d smelled earlier, curls of smoke wafting undisturbed into the entryway like curled petals of chrysanthemum. Just when I creak the door open, there’s a faint shuffling behind me.

It’s Amah, descending the stairs. “Remember yourself, Jacques.”

The morning is cold, the sun slow to rise though the London fog. My returning fever is the only thing keeping me warm in these empty streets. The world feels like it’s paused here, a sepulchral spectre watching from the mist.

I turn and take Amah’s extended hand, bow to press my lips to the back of it, and start walking. Each step forward is heavy, but I don’t stop. Not this time.