Horacio Ashmont's Arc

Chapter 3 of 12

The fire burned steady through the night, but Martha's cough started before dawn. At first it was just a rattle in her chest, the kind that came from breathing cold air too long. By morning it had turned wet and deep. Horacio woke to the sound of her hacking into a rag, her whole body shaking with the effort. Horacio crouched beside her, listening to the wheeze between coughs. The damp chamber was keeping them alive, but it was also drowning Martha's lungs. He had thirty-two pounds left from the developer's payment, and he knew where the herbalist's cart set up near the market square most mornings. The woman charged two shillings for a bottle of horehound syrup that might ease the cough enough to buy Martha time. But he'd need to leave the others alone in the chamber, and Young Tom didn't know how to manage the brazier properly yet. He climbed up through the manhole cover just after dawn and walked fast through the alleys. The pharmacy on the corner had locked iron gates across its windows, but the herbalist's cart stood where it always did, wheels creaking as the old woman arranged bottles on the wooden shelves. Horacio bought the syrup and a packet of dried mullein leaves for hot water. The herbalist squinted at him and threw in a twist of thyme without charging extra. Back in the chamber, he held the bottle while Martha drank, her hands too shaky to grip it herself. The coughing eased by afternoon, enough that Martha could sleep without choking. Horacio sat by the brazier and counted his remaining coins. Twenty-nine pounds and change. Still enough for a room above a tavern if he wanted it for himself. But now he knew what the damp would do to anyone who stayed down here too long. He'd need to spend more on medicine, maybe find a way to improve the ventilation before the cough spread to the others. The room could wait. It would have to.