warm, he took willow bark; in the evening when his lungs insisted on behaving like a bellows with a hole in one end, he even took the paregoric. He read all three volumes of Frankenstein, this time without the delirium of fever, and spared a moment of fellow feeling for creatures reared by perverse villains. Then he wrote a letter to his aunt requesting new books. It gave him a strange pang of guilt, as if he were asking for charity or kindness that would be better directed to a more deserving recipient, but he sent the letter anyway; she enjoyed spending money and Martin wasn’t going to get in the way of her good time. Besides, chances were she’d send him books she had already read, and then he could write her his own opinions, and that would give them something to write about in their correspondence, which apparently was something he was intent on keeping up.
In fact, when he heard the clop of hoofbeats on the dirt path he thought it might be his aunt come herself to verify that he still lived, and he wasn’t even terribly annoyed by it. He got out of bed, pleased to notice that he wasn’t shaky or dizzy or anything other than a bit tired. But when he opened the door, it wasn’t Aunt Bermondsey but Hartley Sedgwick.
The blood drained from Martin’s face as he held on to the door frame for support. “Is he all right—he didn’t write but I thought he was busy—”
“What? No, he’s fine, as far as I know. He’ll be here in a day or two to let you know himself. Your letter said you went home so the idiot ran off to Cumberland. He sent this for you, as he didn’t know if you were well enough to pick up your own post at the inn.” Hartley held out a letter, which Martin took greedy hold of.
“Cumberland,” Martin repeated.
“Well, the next time you write dramatic missives, pay attention to your wording. He assumed—and so did I, until I thought about it—that if you were giving him the cottage, it meant you didn’t intend to live in it yourself.”
“I meant for him to have use of it if I die before him, but I didn’t want to give him a fit by saying so outright. Naturally, if we part ways before that point, he can have the cottage.”
“We both know Will, and I wouldn’t bet on that happening,” Hartley said. He looked at Martin, taking in his slippers and dressing gown, and presumably also his pallor and uncombed hair. “Are you . . . you’re clearly not well, so I won’t be tedious by asking if you are, but are you in need of anything?” He gazed over Martin’s shoulder into the cottage behind him.
“If you come in, I can fix you tea. Daisy brought butter and crumpets when she came to feed the pigs, if you’d care for some. I don’t need anything, but I’ve read every book in the cottage and it’ll be days before my aunt sends more, so if you happen to have a book somewhere on your person, I’d be grateful to borrow it.”
Hartley’s eyebrows were at one with his hairline. Martin didn’t know whether it was the mention of the pigs or Martin’s daring offer of tea that put them there. “I do, in fact,” Hartley said slowly. “One of Will’s friends left a French novel at the Fox with instructions to deliver it to you. He said you’d know what to do with it, and that he’d come to collect it in three weeks.” He removed three volumes from his traveling bag and handed them to Martin.
“Oh,” Martin said, holding the books. “I’m going to translate them. For money,” he added, and maybe his voice had done something peculiar on those last words because when he looked back up at Hartley, he saw that the other man was staring at him, but not unkindly. Martin decided to hell with it and returned to the cottage and set about making tea. Hartley could follow or they could keep talking through the open door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hartley looking about, probably searching for something to explain why this was the place his brother was hurrying to, why this was the place Martin referred to as home. Martin poured the tea and set out the basket of crumpets and the dish of butter.
“You can see that