into a comfortable position.
‘I could fetch you something from the apothecary. I’d take Myrtle for a chaperon,’ Annie offered.
‘Nonsense, dear,’ her mother muttered, waving a hand but still keeping her eyes closed. ‘The housekeeper can send someone else. You have a weak constitution. I won’t have you catching your death from that tainted air. And please hand me the cinnamon biscuits.’ She waved an arm. ‘The physician has had them made to his instructions. I can see why he has been physician to so many families of the ton. He is so knowledgeable and so caring.’
Annie stepped away from her mother and lifted the tray of confections, the scent of them trailing behind her as she walked. She put them on the table at the side of her mother. Her mother took the nearest one, leaned back in her chair, shut her eyes and crunched at the edges of the biscuit, tasting more than eating.
Annie looked over her shoulder at the flowing velvet covering the windows. Some days she didn’t care if the air was unhealthy or the people all carried the plague and vermin crawled about. Some days she would just like to go to the shops without having to fill the carriage with people who must go with her.
Then her mother peered over Annie’s shoulder, and the older woman’s face brightened. ‘The physician can verify that you need to take care and stay inside.’
Annie moved, her eyes following her mother’s gaze.
‘Your mother is right.’ The physician stood in the doorway, perfectly dressed, perfectly perfect and very perfectly annoying.
Now she was sure she didn’t like the man. If he wished to keep her locked away, too, then she had no use for him. The house was bigger than a crypt, but just as closed. Well, no. The people in the crypt had more freedom.
He walked in, placing his bag on the floor, next to the pedestal with the bust of King George.
‘Oh...my...’ The physician stared at her. His eyes widened. Then he put a hand to his coat pocket and pulled out a monocle.
Annie leaned backwards as she pulled in her breath. Her mother straightened, as if waiting for a life-or-death pronouncement in a trial.
The doctor paused. He turned to her mother. ‘How long has your daughter been this way?’
‘What?’ her mother gasped.
In one stride he stood in front of Annie. He held the glass against his eye and peered at her. The scent of dried weeds tainted the air. The man smelled like a poultice. ‘Her skin. It’s too thin.’
Annie didn’t move. Her stomach knotted. She would be a near-invalid like her mother. She would be trapped forever. Her breath caught. She put her hand over her heart.
His head darted around, vermin-like, and he did all but wiggle his whiskers. ‘I can’t see straight through to the bones exactly. But I’m sure they have the texture of sawdust now.’
He lowered the glass to his side and bowed his head. ‘I would hate to see one so young forever... Well, forever not with us.’
Annie took a step back. She had to get away from his words. And if she was going to die anyway, she’d rather do it away from the house.
‘I can save your life. Should it be necessary.’ He raised his face. Then he saw the look in her eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Annabelle. I have a cure.’ He held out a hand in a calming gesture. ‘A very reliable cure.’
Her mother tensed. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She has epidemeosis.’ He patted a hand to his chest. ‘That term is my own as I am the first to be aware of it. In the rest of the world it’s unknown—for now.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well. Nothing really.’ He blinked his words away. ‘The cure is so simple as to be...simple, for lack of a better word.’
‘But her illness?’
‘It’s merely a lack of bile. A serious bile blockage.’
‘The humours again,’ her mother whispered, eyes widening. ‘Those devilish humours. They never stay in order.’
‘Yes. But she’s young. She’ll recover fast. I just would not want it to hurt her spleen. If it reaches the stage where it damages the spleen...’ He shook his head, and expelled a lingering breath, seeming to paint the room with his concern.
‘I will recover?’ Annie asked. She clutched the back of the chair, using it to keep herself upright.
‘Of course.’ The physician turned in her direction, but he glanced briefly at the ceiling, as if he’d heard the words before and perhaps did not even believe himself.
Annie sensed something wrong, but she wasn’t sure if he lied about her recovery or something else.
Then he took the manner of a tutor. ‘It seems the night air right before dawn can build strength. By exposing a person to a small amount of some poisons, they can build a resistance. Edward Jenner discovered this with his cowpox theory when he created a way to save us from smallpox.’ He puffed at the glass of the monocle, blowing away a bit of fuzz. ‘But we mustn’t be overzealous. Give me a few moments and I’ll search out the room which has the highest chance of filtering the air in the right amounts.’
‘Are you sure it will help?’ Annie asked.
‘It’s very simple. You’ll have to sit alone, awake, in the room between four and five in the morning—breathing. Those are the best hours for the air. You can read, or sew or whatever suits your fancy.’
He tapped the monocle against his leg and stared at her mother. ‘I would certainly pass the word throughout the staff and family that they are definitely not to disturb her at this time. It seems the humours are most likely to be put askew by the people who are closest to her the most often. I—’ He put his monocle away. ‘I could speak with her for hours and it wouldn’t bother her as I’ve hardly been near her. But there’s something shared, a miasma of sorts, in people who have been closest to her... She needs to be away from them for a bit.’
‘Are you certain it will cure her?’
‘Oh, yes. I have studied this extensively. For years. I wrote a paper on it.’
‘Well, let me know which room and I will tell the maid to wake her in time for her recovery regime.’
‘I don’t want to do that,’ Annie said. She didn’t trust the man.
The doctor looked at her as if her spleen had just spoken back to him.
‘Miss Annabelle. You must. You have no choice. I have my reputation to keep.’
‘You’ve not been able to cure Mother’s headaches.’
Her mother leaned towards Annabelle, reached out a hand and swatted at Annie’s arm. ‘They are so much better, though. And the lavender oils he has the maids rub into my feet... It always eases my pain.’
The doctor raised a brow in one of those I told you so gestures.
‘Very
