The Whisper of Silenced Voices

by C. J. Archer

  "Not Hammer," I said. "Not to me." I let him go, expecting him to move away.

  But he leaned in and kissed my forehead. Just as I closed my eyes and willed him to kiss me on the lips instead, he pulled back. The door shut and the coach drove off.

  I turned and watched him standing on Grand Avenue between the coach house and stables, until he was a mere speck.

  There was a protest overnight. According to Meg, who came to visit, protestors had taken to the village square to object to The Row being torn down and new housing replacing the derelict structures.

  "They don't want prostitutes and gangs on the streets." She gave Dora an apologetic shrug. "Sorry. I know you're not all like that."

  "It's all right," Dora said, tucking her hair behind her ear with a small, jerky movement. "Many are, but rarely by choice. They do it out of desperation."

  Meg chewed her lip, a deep frown scoring her forehead. "It's awful. Really awful."

  "Were the protests peaceful?" I asked.

  "Lyle says so."

  "He went?"

  She nodded. "Many agree with your sentiment that the replacement housing should be affordable. And the protestors want something set aside for the very poor and orphans, those who have nothing."

  "Both sides agree with you," Dora told me. "Them that live in The Row and out of it. Nobody wants to see folk living in gutters. The roofs of what the poor have now might leak, and the walls are barely standing, but at least they have roofs and walls. Hailia bless you, Josie, for giving me and Remy somewhere to live away from all that."

  "You're welcome to remain as long as you need," I said. The house had never looked so clean. Dora couldn't pay board, but when she wasn't foraging for food and herbs in the forest, she was scrubbing floors or dusting. It was marvelous, until I realized I had very little else to do. After paying visits to the two expectant mothers, I'd taken stock of the larder. I'd sold few medicines recently and had no need to make more.

  "Were Ned Perkin and his followers at the protest?" I asked.

  Meg scoffed. "Of course. Whenever there's trouble, Ned and his friends are nearby, beating their chests. But they were quiet, so Lyle told me. They didn't speak for or against the clearance."

  Like most Mullians, Ned wouldn't want to see The Row's rougher residents forced into the streets where they could prey on villagers. But since most of The Row's newer residents were Vytill migrants, he wouldn't want to take their side either, out of selfish pig-headedness. I felt no sympathy for his dilemma.

  "No one wants to demolish The Row and build expensive housing in its place." Meg said. "No one except the governor and Deerhorns, and only because they'll profit from it."

  "It's council land," I muttered. "They can do what they want with it, including sell it to the Deerhorns. No one can stop them."

  "We can." Meg set down her cup. "We must keep protesting the clearance, or keep pushing for low-cost housing if they do insist on clearing it. They can't go against the wishes of the entire village."

  Dora and I exchanged grim looks. Like me, she knew Meg's idealism had no grounding in reality. The Deerhorns could do what they wanted. It didn't matter if all of Mull was against them. They had the governor on their side, and probably other members of the council too. Their votes could be bought.

  "Do you know what the governor had the gall to say once the protestors dispersed?" Meg went on. "He was overheard saying that we should be glad to get rid of The Row, that its buildings are falling apart. He doesn't understand that we're not fighting for the buildings; we're fighting for the people."

  Dora touched Meg's hand. "Thank you."

  Meg seemed surprised to be the subject of gratitude. Surprised and a little embarrassed. She sipped her tea, hiding her face behind the cup.

  "No one would realize you're such a rebel at heart," I teased her. "Everyone thinks you're so meek and amenable. But Dora and I have seen your true nature come out today. You'd make Ned Perkin quake if you two ever had an argument."

  Meg grunted. "Hardly."

  "Perhaps not quake, but you could certainly beat him in a debate."

  "The problem with men like Ned is they don't bother with debate," she said. "They make statements with clubs and fists, not words."

  "And those kind of statements win," Dora muttered.

  "Then we have to hope Ned continues to watch on and do nothing," I said. "Now, who wants cake?"

  "I'll get it," Meg said, entering the larder before I could stop her. "You have a lot of medicines in here, Josie," she called out.

  "Nobody's buying them."

  She brought the cake out on a board and sliced it up. There was just enough for three with a little left over for Remy. It was a cake Meg's mother had brought over the day before, and it had been our dinner. I planned to buy fish today with the few ells I had left. Remy needed proper food for a growing boy, and hopefully there'd be something left after the best of the day's catch was sold. Considering the help I'd given Gill Swinson's daughter after she was raped, I hoped he might sell me a fish at a discounted price.

  "Why is nobody buying your medicine?" Meg asked.

  "That's what I'd like to know. You haven't heard any rumors?"

  She handed me a piece of cake. "Like what?"

  "Like Mistress Ashmole is making her own medicines and selling them to Doctor Ashmole's patients?"

  "No one will buy off her. They'd rather come to you. Those who've known you all your life, I mean." She passed a plate to Dora. "Doctor Ashmole isn't very well liked. I've heard his manner is abrupt and his wife's is worse. Oona Dwyer invited her for tea, but all Mistress Ashmole did was complain about Mull the entire time. Apparently she hates it here and wants to go back to Tilting, where they lived before Logios. And no one wants to see Doctor Ashmole. Apparently his hands are as prickly as his manner."

  "Prickly hands?" Dora echoed.

  Meg merely shrugged.

  "What about his diagnoses and treatments?" I asked.

  "Nobody's died after seeing him, if that's what you mean."

  She looked so serious that I spluttered a laugh, and they both laughed too.

  We finished our cake and I tidied up, returning the board to the larder. There wasn't much space for food among the medicines, but it didn't matter since I had so little to eat. I stood in the doorway, hands on hips, and frowned at the rows of labeled jars and bottles of different sizes, the bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters to dry, and the small drawers filled with powders.

  "Meg," I said over my shoulder. "Are you sure Mistress Ashmole isn't making and selling her own medicines?"

  She came up beside me. "I was only guessing she isn't because no one would buy off her when they can get them from you. My mother will know for certain."

  "She wouldn't have mentioned it?"

  "You know my mother," she said with a roll of her eyes. "She doesn't like hurting anyone's feelings, and that includes delivering bad news. But if we confront her directly, she'll have to tell us."

  Meg and I went across the road and found Mistress Diver in the kitchen, one hand massaging her lower back, the other stirring a pot hanging over the hot coals. I planned to make polite conversation first, but Meg launched straight into her question.

  "Mama, is Mistress Ashmole making her own medicines?"

  Mistress Diver stopped stirring and chewed her lip.

  "Mama?" Meg prompted. "I know that look. Tell us what you've heard."

  Mistress Diver had always been such an honest, upstanding person, and it seemed she couldn't lie to us now, not even to save my feelings. "Apparently she is making her own. I don't buy from her, mind. I only buy from you, Josie. I don't believe a word that woman says."

  I frowned. "What is she saying?"

  She resumed her stirring. "Nasty lies. It's best if you don't hear them. It'll only upset you."

  Now my curiosity was really piqued. "It won't upset me," I assured her. "I'd rather know what she's saying so I can prepare myself. Wouldn't it be better if I heard
it from you rather than in the marketplace?"

  Mistress Diver still hesitated.

  "Tell us, Mama," Meg said. "Do you want Josie to hear it from Arrabette Fydler?"

  Mistress Diver's lips pursed at the mention of the sharp-tongued Arrabette. "Very well, but don't take it to heart, Josie." She set down the spoon and rubbed her hands on her apron. "I learned only yesterday that Mistress Ashmole is making and selling her own remedies to her husband's patients. I won't tell you who told me, but I will say she's a good woman who's too trusting sometimes. She believes everything she's told without question. Anyway, when I asked her why she'd buy medicine from Mistress Ashmole and not you, someone she's known all her life and who needs our support now, she told me the doctor and his wife have been…saying things."

  "What things?" Meg asked, indignant.

  "That Josie's remedies don't work."

  "They can't say that! It's not true!"

  "We know that," Mistress Diver. "But some in the village are fools. The Ashmoles are saying that it was your father who guided you, Josie, and that without him, your medicines no longer have the healing properties they once did."

  "Bollocks," Meg spat.

  Mistress Diver glared at her daughter. "They're using Josie's lack of education against her." She turned to me. "Your father was the trained doctor, not you, and the Ashmoles are claiming that an uneducated girl can't possibly carry on the work without him."

  "She's hardly a girl at her age," Meg muttered.

  I sat heavily on a chair, not quite certain what to make of the news. Surely Mistress Ashmole hadn't put it quite so baldly, or Mistress Diver's friend exaggerated. "But medicines are sold by apothecaries all over The Fist, many of them the uneducated wives or daughters of doctors. It's not a requirement to have been to a Logios college to study."

  "Try telling that to simple village folk," Mistress Diver said.

  "Simple is right," Meg spat. "Simple, backward, provincial. Some folk here are everything the Vytill migrants claim. I'm ashamed to call them my friends and neighbors." She sighed and slumped into the chair next to me, all her fire suddenly gone. "How can they believe the word of someone they hardly know over you, Josie?"

  "Because they're scared," I told her. "They don't want to take a risk with their health or the health of their family, and they trust someone who has attended college. It's why we have the college system." I knew how the villagers could be when they fell ill. They'd do everything in their power to make their loved ones better again, even if it was at the expense of someone they'd known their entire lives. Besides, many wouldn't know how dire my situation had become since I was still the village midwife.

  But for how much longer? Would Mistress Ashmole take over that as well?

  As much as I wished the gossip didn't affect me, it did. I couldn't rise above it, nor could I push it to the back of my mind and get on with my day. The real problem was, I had no work to distract me.

  I spent some time with Remy in the afternoon while Dora returned to The Row to take fresh water and medicine to the only friend she'd made there. Remy was a quick learner but his level of education was very low.

  When Dora returned, I questioned her about the situation in her old neighborhood as we sipped our tea.

  "The guards are still on duty at the entrance," she said. "It was difficult to get in, but they eventually allowed it after I convinced them I used to live there. There were fights between the two factions last night over the food the palace sent. Apparently the fights were contained, but no one thinks peace will last. Everyone is worried the situation will escalate and fear skirmishes will turn into a war."

  "Was anyone injured?"

  She nodded. "Some of the men have knife wounds."

  "Have they had their wounds checked by Doctor Ashmole?"

  She shook her head. "A man went to fetch him to take him to his brother who got a cut on his leg, but Doctor Ashmole refused."

  "Did the brother take the wounded man to Doctor Ashmole instead?"

  "You don't understand, Josie. The doctor refused to see anyone from The Row, either there or in his surgery. He said if he tends to one man's wounds, that man's enemies might take offence and come for him."

  Doctor Ashmole was a coward. My father wasn't the bravest man in Mull, but he went into The Row if needed, and he never turned anyone away.

  I stewed for the rest of the day. The more I thought of Doctor Ashmole's cowardice, and his wife's lies, the more my blood boiled. I could hear my father's words in my head, telling me that I was too impetuous and emotional sometimes. He'd been right—I was—but knowing that didn't help settle my nerves.

  I left the house as the buildings cast their long shadows over the streets and the sun had lost most of its heat. After all, why deny my nature? If I was impetuous, then so be it.

  Doctor Ashmole's house was located on the edge of Mull, a good walk from my street. It wasn't the most convenient place for his older patients, particularly as his house was located in a dip. Even after several dry days, there was still a muddy puddle outside his front door. One of his neighbor's chickens wandered past as I knocked. It clucked and pecked at the ground, then tried to run away as a young boy gave chase. Both chicken and child squealed when he caught it.

  Mistress Ashmole opened the door and her mouth pinched upon seeing me. I thought she might slam the door in my face, but perhaps politeness got the better of her. She invited me inside, but not before shouting at the child.

  "Stop that noise! This is a doctor's surgery. We require peace and quiet. Honestly," she muttered, closing the door. "The children in this village are wild."

  She did not invite me further into the house, but remained standing in the small sitting room at the front. It was sparsely furnished with no cushions on the wooden chairs and no rugs covering the stone floor. It was spotless, however, and the two silver candlesticks on the mantel gleamed.

  "I'm glad you're here," Mistress Ashmole said before I could speak. "You've saved me a journey. I need your recipe for Mother’s Milk."

  I blinked in surprise. "I'm not selling the recipe. You're welcome to purchase a few bottles, however."

  "I require the recipe, Mistress Cully. Don't make a scene. My husband has a patient. Please bring the recipe by tomorrow morning."

  I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. If she had the nerve to expect me to agree then she certainly wouldn't think twice about spreading nasty rumors about me. "Mother’s Milk is a pain suppressor developed by my parents over many years. It's complicated and expensive to reproduce but very effective, particularly in surgery."

  She thrust out her chin. "I'm not asking for a lecture, I'm asking you to give me the recipe."

  "And I'm telling you, you can't have it. I will sell what I can make to you."

  Her nostrils flared, reminding me of Lady Deerhorn when she was affronted. "You have no need of it!"

  "On the contrary. My only source of income is from the sale of medicines and midwifery work. Since Mother’s Milk is too dangerous in the hands of ordinary folk, I can only sell it to your husband. So either you buy it from me, or you make your own."

  "You would deny my husband's patients? You would have them endure the pain of surgery?"

  "No, Mistress Ashmole, you would, if you refuse to buy it from me. When you change your mind, I'll have a bottle of Mother’s Milk waiting for you. Until then, your husband will have to perform surgery the way they still do in the medical colleges—with a bottle of strong spirits."

  She turned on her heel and opened the door again. She didn't even bother with a “good day.”

  I hadn't finished yet, although I knew my request would fall on deaf ears. If she wouldn't give in on the Mother’s Milk, she wouldn't give in on anything else.

  "I came here to appeal to your husband's sense of duty, to ask him to attend to patients in The Row," I said.

  "And risk his life?" she scoffed. "You're a silly fool, Mistress Cully. As was your father, so I've heard. We are not f
ools."

  I bristled but stamped down on my rising anger. "They won't retaliate against you if you help one of their enemies."

  She suddenly laughed, a barking sound that shook her thin shoulders and stretched her lips into a narrow gash. "It has nothing to do with retaliation and everything to do with their ability to pay. Most folk in that den of vice don't have an ell between them, and those who can afford my husband's services are vile and godless. He certainly won't be helping those kind of people."

  "'Those kind of people?'" I echoed, sounding as foolish as she claimed me to be. "But…your husband is the village doctor. He has to treat everyone who comes to his door."

  "He doesn't have to do anything of the sort. He can refuse anyone, for any reason." She opened the door wider and waited for me to exit.

  I stared at her, not quite sure what to say. It was one thing for Doctor Clegg to limit his services to only the elite, but Doctor Ashmole was the village medic. It was his duty to attempt to heal everyone.

  I was about to tell her I'd inform the college, but stopped myself. That would do no good. The college in Logios was finished with Doctor Ashmole, and what he did after obtaining his education wasn't their concern. The problem was, I couldn't complain to the governor of Mull or council members either. They would probably take his side and be happy to see The Row's people die of starvation, illness or their wounds. There wasn't a soul in the whole of Glancia who could order Doctor Ashmole to treat everyone in the village equally.

  Mistress Ashmole cleared her throat and drummed her fingernails against the door.

  "And another thing," I said. "I've heard what you're saying about me and my medicines. It must stop. You know very well that apothecaries don't need to go to any of the colleges."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Mistress Cully. If you don't mind—"

  "How dare you disparage me around the village! All my remedies are made from the same recipes we used when my father was alive. There's nothing wrong with them."

  She snorted in derision.

  "Stop your campaign against me," I said. "Stop your lies."