Page 10 of The Phoenix Bride
“Is there a reason you wish to remain behind the tree, Mistress Thorowgood?”
I do not reply. I am still out of breath, and I have been suddenly struck with a terrible anxiety; it has been so long since I was alone with a stranger.
Eventually, he asks, “Are you frightened of me?”
I snort. “Of course not. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you didn’t prod me with torture instruments and tell me I ought to be bloodlet.”
“Is that what other physicians have done?”
“Yes.”
“That is a shame,” he says. “I swear I shall never touch you without your permission, using instruments or otherwise.”
“Then you shan’t ever touch me at all.”
“If that is what you wish.”
I step out from behind the tree. Mendes smiles at me. “Good afternoon,” he says.
“Good afternoon,” I reply automatically. Then, “I have no need of a new physician, you know.”
“Your sister requested my presence.”
“Her request was foolish. And she’ll have you dismissed within the week, so you really ought to spare yourself the trouble and leave now.”
Mendes offers me a strange expression, part amused, part perplexed. Then he passes his hand over his face, scrubbing the twitch away from it, as if polishing a spoon. His beard is so neatly trimmed I wonder if he has used mathematical instruments to accomplish it. His jaw is a little lopsided, and he has a few tiny pox scars on his upper neck, like a scattering of stars. He seems young for a physician. He can’t be much older than I am.
A wave of dizziness hits me, and I lean further against the tree. Mendes gestures to the other chair. “Would you like to sit?”
I sit at the roots of the linden, partially out of petulance, and partially because I feel so woozy I don’t trust myself to walk to the table. Breathing deeply, I rest my head in my hands, ignoring the black spots in my vision.
“When did you last eat?” he asks me.
“If I answer your questions, will you leave sooner?”
“I suppose so.”
I say, “I tried to eat this morning.”
“And you vomited?”
I shrug.
“Were you hungry when you ate?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Do you become hungry?”
“Sometimes.”
“If you are hungry, and you attempt to eat, what happens?” he asks.
“I lose my appetite,” I reply. “And if I force myself to swallow, it comes back up.”
“When did you last leave this house?”
One hundred and thirty-eight days ago. “I don’t know.”
