Scar Night Page 0,58
and put his arm around her shoulders. “Life’s greatest mystery,” he said, “is death. What happens to us? Where do we go? You believe in God, don’t you? You believe in the soul?”
The girl sniffed and nodded, raised her eyes to meet his.
“Then you must believe Ulcis can release it from the blood.” He smoothed back some of the hair from her face. “If the soul truly exists, take comfort in knowing that yours will not be wasted.” His expression softened. “I intend to put it to great use. One more plump little grape in a rare bottle of wine, eh?”
She wailed and shook her head, sending more hair tumbling over her face.
“Hush, girl, you shouldn’t worry. It will all be over soon.” He gave her his warmest smile, wincing inwardly at the pain it caused him, and cupped his hand to her cheek. Tears spilled over his fingers. He leaned closer, speaking gently. “Shhh…You must try to be brave. I know we shun death: we lock it away, forget about it, until one day it rattles the box and reminds us it’s there. For me that day arrived when my wife fell ill. But Elizabeth had an implacable beauty that no force of man or nature could have soured. Even at the end, when her skin wept like mine, she remained beautiful—to me.”
The girl’s breathing was softer now. The clock on the mantel ticked steadily and the logs crackled in the hearth. Devon rested her head against his chest and held her gently until she died.
* * * *
For the love of God, woman, for the sake of all that’s sacred and good, will you not shut up?” Doctor Salt’s hands gripped an imaginary neck.
Rosemary Salt stood with arms folded, blocking his escape from the parlour. “I will not let you talk your way around this one, Arthur. I don’t give a damn what night it is.”
“She’ll hear you,” Arthur Salt hissed. “And then none of this is going to make a blind bit of difference. Do you want to get us both killed?”
His wife didn’t budge. “Twelve bottles, Arthur? How in God’s name did you get through twelve bottles in a month? You must have been permanently ratted.”
Doctor Salt threw out his arms, his fingers splayed. “I didn’t drink them all myself. I’ve had all these functions to attend lately—you know that—and I can’t very well turn up without bringing some token.”
“Oh, bring a token, yes, fine. Next time bring your own thick skull full of Warrengrog, but don’t you dare dip into my bonus from the distillery. That case was supposed to do us for a year. What about the bottle I’d promised my father, and the one for your brother, for that matter?” Rosemary Salt stabbed a pudgy finger at her husband. “You think I don’t know what’s been going on? It’s Jocelyn Wilton, isn’t it? You’re always round there.”
Doctor Salt eased his reply through clenched teeth. “Visiting Patrick. I can hardly refuse an invitation from the faculty head, can I? He needs someone to talk to. He’s worried about Jocelyn’s health, that’s all.”
“Her health!” Rosemary cried. “Next to you, she’s the biggest drunk in Deepgate. You could pickle eggs with her blood.”
“Will you keep your voice down? Surely we can talk about this another time. I’ll buy you some more bloody whisky.”
“You’re damn right you’ll—”
There was a rap at the door.
Rosemary Salt froze. She stood with her mouth open, her tongue sticking out absurdly. Doctor Salt looked past her, wide-eyed, into the hallway. “It can’t be her,” he breathed. “I can’t imagine she’d bother to—”
Several more knocks, urgent.
Doctor Salt swallowed. “We don’t have to answer it.”
His wife had a hand pressed to her mouth. “What if it’s not her?” she murmured through her fingers. “It might be one of your patients. We can’t leave them outside tonight.”
“We damn well can.”
“What if it’s an emergency?”
“Sod it.”
They stared at each other for a long moment.
Three more knocks.
“I’ll go ask who it is,” Rosemary said. She lifted the lantern from the dresser and crept into the hall, before stealing a backward glance at him. “We don’t have to actually open the door.”
He followed her, nerves tense as twisted wire. The front door was bolted; no sounds beyond but the wind gusting outside. The wooden panels shook with the force of it.
“Who’s there?” Rosemary asked.
A cold voice answered: “It’s Jocelyn. Let me in.”
Doctor Salt’s muscles unravelled. Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, he moved towards the door.
“Wait.” His wife