The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [81]
They went to the storeroom and gathered Awa’s satchel, which she had never unpacked. She had slept on the floor beside Paracelsus and with the lack of privacy had not wanted him examining her dagger or salamander eggs by leaving the unusual items lying around. As she shouldered the bag Paracelsus burst into the room behind them, his arms wrapped around a small cask.
“And just where do you think you’re off to, my dear?” The physician panted as he set the keg down. “And look at you, madam, fully recovered in so short a span!”
“We’re leavin,” said Monique. “An’ where we go ain’t concern of man, beast, nor nuthin betwixt’em.”
“And when will you be back, Sister Gloria?” asked Paracelsus, straightening up and looking at Awa.
“I …” Awa glanced at Monique, who raised her palms and took a step back. “I don’t intend to return. I thank you very much for your time, of course, and your generosity, and—”
“My understanding, of course,” said Paracelsus, narrowing his puffy eyes. “Most people in this wide world of ours would not be so understanding, I don’t think.”
“Of course, your—” Awa began, but he cut her off.
“Most people would not tolerate a witch to sleep under their roof, let alone a Moor.” Paracelsus raised his eyebrows, glancing at Monique. “No, most people might balk at the idea of a woman composed of more sulfur than salt being allowed to live, let alone—”
Which is when Monique closed the short distance between them and punched him dead in the jaw. Paracelsus seemed to hop nimbly backwards onto his table, but then all his limbs flailed about and glasses were breaking and his canisters went rolling onto the floor. Monique might have hit him again but Awa grabbed the taller woman’s arm.
“Call’er a fuckin witch again an’ see what happens!” Monique bellowed before Paracelsus’s eyes had even come back into focus. “Say it again, ya quack, an’ I’ll drown ya in your fuckin pox-metal!”
“I am a witch,” said Awa. “He just didn’t want you to think I wasn’t when—”
“The fuck he had anythin but blackmail in mind,” Monique fumed. “I know when a fuckin cock’s workin a threat into ’is words, an’ that’s what he was doin. Threatenin.”
“Monique, I am a witch. Did you hear me?” Awa squeezed her friend’s arm, unsure whether she wanted her to punch the physician again or not. He had seemed a most understanding man, albeit a peculiar one, and until this he had given her no definitive reason to think his concern for her was less than altruistic.
“Maybe if you’d put a pox on me stead a takin one off I’d give a shit,” said Monique. “As is, I’m more’n happy ta pay ya for your wiles with more’n a spot beside me on the floor and fuckin gruel to eat like this lump’s been doin. Ya wanna fuckin tell me she’s a witch again, lump?!”
“No.” Paracelsus dribbled a little blood as he spoke, glaring at Monique. Awa saw his eyes dart over to his sword propped against the wall, and she quickly stepped between him and it. At this his shoulders sagged, and the sullen young doctor said, “Go on then, Sister Gloria, I can see when my friendship is no longer required. I would not have exploited you, though; I would have had you for a tutor. I only hope that in time you will not allow false impressions to color the facts, that I was a man open to you in ways that those who could never understand you could, could never understand.”
“An’ jus what the fuck is that supposed ta mean?” demanded Monique, bowing up further.
“That in only a short time I have learned much from our mutual friend,” Paracelsus spat, a small rose blooming on Monique’s tunic where his bloody spittle fell. Tears were running down his cheeks as he continued, but Awa did not know if these were the result of emotion at her impending departure or being struck in the face. “That much of what we, in our ignorance, think of as medicine is actually poison, but that very poison, in the proper dosage, can be a medicine. That there is more at work than we know, and that if we but listen to the swarthy witch, the seemingly