the tincture into Martin’s mouth. Martin swallowed, then coughed and swore. Will soaked a flannel in vinegar and started bathing Martin’s forehead. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was their last hour. Everybody had one, sooner or later. He tried to make peace with the idea of Martin dying here, in this cottage, of this being the end to a friendship that had lasted most of their lives. He had made peace with a lot of things lately, and was starting to suspect that his idea of making peace was other people’s idea of expecting the worst, but that might merely be a semantic difference.
“If you’re going to sit there,” Martin said, his voice rusty with disuse and weak from lack of air, “at least tell me a story.”
Will almost dropped the cloth. That was the first thing Martin had asked for in the last week, unless one counted “fuck off” and “let me die” as requests. “What, you’re not going to ask nicely?” he murmured.
Martin opened his eyes long enough to raise an eyebrow and cast Will a baleful glance. “William,” he sighed. “Really.” And just the sight of Martin looking scornful and bored warmed Will’s heart a little bit. Maybe everything would be fine.
Never in his entire life had Will been able to refuse anything Martin requested, so he launched into a tale of evil wizards and kindhearted ogres, of princesses who carried swords and merchants with enchanted ships. It was nonsense, and likely would only pass muster with a highly feverish audience. But as the sun crept higher in the sky, Martin dozed, and when he woke his fever was gone.
Chapter Two
Martin didn’t know if it was the sound of Will’s voice or the fact that it meant Will was nearby, but listening to him read aloud was soothing in a way no tinctures or balms had ever been. Even now, when Will was reading a thoroughly mad novel about villainous doctors hell-bent on grave robbing and vivisection, his voice acted like a snake charmer’s flute.
As Martin listened, he looked out the window at this landscape that was neither strange nor quite familiar in its gentle near-flatness. Martin could, he supposed, ask Will where they were. But what mattered more was where they weren’t: not near anyone who would try to browbeat or control Martin—for his own good, of course—nor anyone who thought Martin’s illness was an excellent excuse to politely take away his choices and his freedom, to delicately turn the key in the lock.
And yet. He didn’t think he had come willingly to—to wherever they were. He wanted to know where they were, but more importantly he wanted to know how they had gotten there, but he was afraid he wasn’t ready for the answer to that quite yet.
He became aware that Will had left off reading. “Don’t stop,” he said. “At least not on my account.”
“Your eyes were shut,” Will said. He sat in the chair beside Martin’s bed, his booted feet a heavy weight on the mattress. Martin could almost sense the heat pouring off Will’s body. Will had always run hot. “I thought you might have fallen asleep.”
“I’m paying perfect attention,” Martin lied. His fever may have broken, but his mind was the hollowed-out husk it always was after a fever. It had been two years since he showed the first signs of consumption, which he had acquired in circumstances he strongly preferred not to think about, but before that he had a lifetime of frail health and weak lungs and ill humors and whatever else the physicians and apothecaries decided to call it. By now Martin knew the lay of the land. “I want to know what happens to the poor man.” When Will didn’t answer, Martin opened his eyes and found Will looking at him curiously, his hair tumbled across his forehead in a way that made Martin’s fingers itch to brush it back.
“Which poor man?” Will asked carefully.
“The man who—he lives in the Alps and has an overbearing father.”
Will closed the book. “I think we’ll leave the rest of this novel for when you’re more lucid,” he said, his mouth twitching in a badly suppressed smile, “but I will always cherish the description of Victor Frankenstein as an overbearing parent.”
“You’re mocking an invalid. Shame on you.” But just that short conversation had drained Martin and he already felt his eyelids drooping. “Later,” he said.
“Wait,” Will said. “Let me give you more medicine before you’re asleep. Getting willow bark tincture