The candle flickered wildly as a thin stream of cold air seeped in around the ill-fitted shutters covering the window. Weak, golden light washed over the woman in erratic patterns, sending similarly contorting shadows across the man beside her. She was bent forward, and her fingers were slowly lowering the hem of her ebon dress until it caressed her ankles. The man watched, his black eyes like twin beads of onyx in his aged, leathery face. He turned away to dip his hands into a bowl and begin to wash them, as the woman sat up slowly, using both palms to brush back thick waves of mahogany from her cheeks and neck.
"This is beyond my skill," said the man in a cracked, dry voice.
"There is nothing to be done then?" the woman asked, her honey-like timbre a stark contrast to his tone.
The old apothecary turned to study the woman again, and was silent for a time. "Nothing by my hands," he conceded at last, drying his weathered knuckles on his surgeon's apron.
The woman sat for a long moment with her feet primly set together and her hands folded on her knee. Her eyes were large and round like a young doe, thoughtful and cool. "Do you know of any other who might have the skill you lack?"
"Nay," said the man, shaking out his hands and turning away from her.
"I suppose there are worse ways to die," she murmured quietly. "Though it will not be as swift as one might wish."
A wheezing sigh escaped the apothecary's lungs. His pole-like legs carried him to a corner of the small room where an endless array of grimy-looking bottles cluttered a shelf. He began to fiddle and arrange them in what seemed a random manner. "There are things you can do to ease the symptoms, at least. Coriander milk for the fevers..."
"Yes, I know," she interrupted gently.
The man looked at her over his shoulder with narrowed eyes. "You seem to know quite a lot," he mused lowly.
Her hands swept over the silken fabric covering her thighs. "I have some knowledge of simples."
The inspection of the apothecary's gaze continued, while the woman sat with her own face slightly averted, looking into the dying embers of his small hearth. At length, he spoke once more, his words coming out in unappealing bursts on his dry, spittled tongue. "I have heard of some physicians attempting to use autumn crocus for this ailment. I will not say that it worked or did not work. I don't know either way. I don't keep it in my stores and I don't know of anyone who does." His pointed chin gave a sharp nod of finality.
A soft and wearied sigh drew out from the woman's delicate nostrils. "I suppose it will depend on whether I wish to wander the roads and seek out such a thing. Or languish in some sort of restful comfort and let the end come when it will."
"Aye," said the man bluntly, but not without a subtle note of compassion in his voice.
The woman did not linger further, but as if she had come to a decision already, she stood and held out her hand to him. A small flash of gold glinted in the candlelight.
The doctor blinked dumbly at the coin, and then held up a gnarled hand. "Nay, lady. You only owe me..."
"For your trouble," she spoke over him, reaching to lay the coin beside the clutter of bottles, bypassing his hand. Without offering further exchange of word or deed, she scooped up a black fringed shawl from the chair upon which she had been perched, threw it around her shoulders, and swept out into the darkness.
