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As suppertime approached, Will left Taintwell feeling exhausted and dispirited. A cool mist had begun to fall, further dampening his spirits. Oh, how he hoped Fan felt better! They could bathe together and dine together, and sit before the parlor stove to talk about their days, and make sweet, slow love in that feather-plump bed before sleep refreshed them for tomorrow. That was how they usually spent their evenings. Already, the ache of missing such loving intimacies had settled inside Will. He yearned to have them back.

Should he tell Fan about Ulney Rumpiton, about Mrs. Rumpiton’s hiring of Zofen and the nighttime appearance of the Spiritorium? He would have to decide that after gauging Fan’s mood. But he did need to talk to
somebody
about these strange goings-on. The subject was too unsettling to ignore.

Will had no firsthand knowledge of Ulney’s behavior so couldn’t determine if or how the boy had changed. He was still becoming acquainted with the residents of Taintwell, most of whom he met in one of three ways: when they came to Fan’s house to discuss some matter with the Eminence of Taintwell, when Will accompanied Fan to village meetings, or when Will patronized local shops. It would take many more months for him to learn who was who.

Cloudburst was in the barn when Will parked the OMT, which meant Fan was already home. He tried to ignore the apprehension that began to nibble at him. Straightening his cravat and coat, for Fan loved seeing him handsomely dressed, Will strode to the back door and let himself in.

Immediately he knew Fan
wasn’t
better. No cooking smells scented the air. No water filled the bathtub. Whichever of them arrived home first always began these chores. The house’s deadness signified another telling departure from routine.

Will hung up his hat and called out, “I’m back from my job hunt. If you haven’t eaten yet, I’ll fix us something.”

Fan soon appeared in the doorway to the parlor. “Don’t bother.”

He sounded terrible and looked worse—his skin ashen, the lines in his face carved deeper, the intense clarity of his eyes dulled to mud. Yes, he’d fallen off the bridge. He’d fallen far.

Will approached him and gently laid a hand on the side of his face. Fan hadn’t shaved, hadn’t bothered to brush the snarls out of his thick hair. “Go rest, my darling. I’ll bring you whatever you need.”

What Fan needed, and desperately, was his special herbal tonic. All the patience and understanding Will had to give wouldn’t pull him from the abyss. Assurance that his father had left the province wouldn’t do it either. His illness had a firm grip on him now. Regardless of what had caused that fist to close and lock, only Fan’s medicine had the power to loosen it. Yet even
that
came with no guarantees.

Will was terrified, but he knew he must not show it.

Slowly, Fan’s arm rose. He lifted Will’s hand from his face. “William, I want you to leave. I… I’m having difficulty… holding myself together. You don’t need to be around me when I’m like this. I can’t even tolerate myself when I’m like this.”

“You’re wrong. This is when I
most
need to be around you.” Will hurried over to the stove and grabbed the teapot. “Here, let me make a decoction of the powder. I’ll brew six cups, eight cups. That way I can simply heat it when you need it. I’ll even put in as much honey as you’d like. Or you can drink it cold, with sugar and some chips of ice.”

Just as Will began filling the kettle at the sink pump, Fan snatched it out of his hand. “Stop coddling me. You’re only making matters worse. Can’t you see that?” He set the cast iron kettle in the sink with a weighty
thunk
, then braced his hands on the sink’s edge and hung his head. “Leave, William. I can’t bear having you here, hovering over me. I know it’s getting too cold for you to stay in your caravan, but I’ll gladly pay for your lodging at the White Inn or Elva Scrubb’s boardinghouse. I just want you gone. Frankly I”
—
he swallowed hard
—
“I think it was a mistake having you move in.”

Will felt his face contract as if Fan had struck him. “You can’t mean that.”
Fan isn’t in his right mind
, he kept telling himself, but the reminder didn’t mitigate the sting of those words. He grasped Fan’s upper arms and made him turn. “Listen to me. I love you. It doesn’t matter if you’re not better yet. I want to help you
get
better. Let me stay and help you.”

“No. There’s nothing you can do. And that tonic only does so much.” Fan wrenched free of Will’s grasp. “Please don’t look at me. Don’t touch me. And for gods’ sake, don’t make me hate you. Just go. You can come for your things while I’m at work. Take the OMT and use it as long as you need to. If it breaks down, have Bentcross fix it. I’ll make good on the debt.”

Will’s throat tightened with every word.
“Don’t make me hate you.”
Was it possible such a thing could happen? That, simply by being there, he could suffocate Fan with his caring, or exacerbate Fan’s shame?

“I don’t know what to do,” Will croaked out, aggrieved and furious and helpless. Uncle Penrose had always told him not to be a quitter unless it was for his own or the common good. But he couldn’t determine if this was one of those cases. He knew only that he couldn’t bear it if Fan hated him. Worse, if he, regardless of his good intentions, contributed to Fan’s turmoil.

“Yes, you know what to do,” Fan said quietly. “You must go away. And stay away. I won’t send you off into this dismal night, but… I would like you to be gone in the morning. My mind can’t be changed, William.”

Trying to keep himself from shaking, Will took three steps toward the parlor. Then something welled up in him, something like the white-hot liquid metal that poured from casting ladles in every Purinton foundry, and the force of it made him stop and spin toward Fan. “I know you have every right to toss me out like a beggar. This is your house. But I have every right not to stand for it.” He shot an arm forward and pointed at Fan. “I’ve given you the best I have to give, and I would’ve offered even more if I could, and now you’re slapping it away like a mosquito. If that’s how much you value my love, Fanule, perhaps I should stop squandering it on an ingrate like you.” Too distraught to think clearly, Will kicked at the stove. His face felt on fire, and his voice boiled toward a shout. “From now on, feel free to find strength and comfort in your bloody damned blasted self-pity or self-reliance or pride or vanity or whatever the hell it is. And leave
me
alone.”

Ten minutes later, as Will lay shivering on the sofa beneath a blanket, he feared he might vomit. Every word spoken in the kitchen stabbed at him. Not for the thinnest shaving of a second had he ever thought he might say such things to Fan. Or Fan to him. Not since the deaths of his parents and uncle had he felt so utterly bereft.

I
F
W
ILL
slept at all, it couldn’t have been for more than an hour or two. He’d heard Fan leave for work, knew Fan had stood over him for a moment before heading into the barn and saddling Cloudburst. But Will hadn’t sat up or even cracked open his eyes. What would have been the point? Fan hadn’t touched him or whispered a single word, which meant nothing had changed since yesterday evening.

A note on the kitchen table read, simply,
Good-bye.
I’m sorry.

After forcing himself to eat and bathe, Will packed a valise with immediate necessities. He made sure to bring enough money to carry himself through the next couple of weeks, although he fervently hoped Fan would come to his senses much sooner and begin taking his tonic again. Will had already determined that he wouldn’t stay away completely. He couldn’t.

The most terrifying outcome of this bout was that Fan, driven by despair, would try to harm himself. Will had to do
something
to guard against that. He’d skulk around Fan’s house and property every night if he had to, or beg the nocturnal Marrowbone to take turns with him. He’d even tell Mr. and Mrs. Pinshins to keep an eye on Fan while he worked.

Anything. Will would do anything in his power to keep this affliction from claiming the man he loved. Wasn’t that what his own father had said about
his
beloved, Will’s mother, who’d suffered from a variation of the same disease?

With a heavy heart, Will made his way to Mrs. Scrubb’s boardinghouse in the thin and dreary early-morning light. November, he’d always thought, was a mean miser indeed, as often as it withheld the optimistic glow and warmth of Old Sol. How he needed some sunshine today… and how Fan must have needed it!

In part to distract himself, he kept his eyes peeled both for the Spiritorium and for Ulney Rumpiton, but he saw neither.

All of Taintwell seemed lethargic. Fallen leaves, unswept, gathered in shop entrances. Few wagons trundled down the dirt streets. Neighbors didn’t call from yard to yard, and children shuffled rather than scampered toward the redbrick schoolhouse on Bellringer Lane. In spite of last night’s drizzle, the village smelled as dry and musty as an attic… and felt as void of vitality.

Or maybe Will was seeing Taintwell through the smudged lens of his own mood.

Why can’t I be a man about this?
he thought peevishly, even while he worried about Fan, longed for Fan.
Why can’t I adopt a more phlegmatic attitude? There’s nothing else I can do.
As he turned onto Chitter Place, he caught of whiff of fresh bakery from the shop on the corner. For a bright, fleeting instant he felt the urge to stop there, to buy a few things for his and Fan’s supper and tomorrow’s breakfast. Then the boardinghouse came into view, jolting Will back to the reason for his outing. His love affair with Fan had shaped the track of his life and his thoughts more than he’d realized.

Suddenly his eyes began to sting. He blinked, annoyed with himself. Weakness wouldn’t do.

Pull yourself together. Get settled into your room and then work out a plan.

As Will parked his OMT in an empty lot beside the pink clapboard building, he wondered how many other boarders were housed there. He didn’t feel very sociable and recoiled from the thought of communal breakfasts and suppers. Anticipating his lonely nights was even worse.

Perhaps, he thought, he should start keeping a journal. Recording what had happened thus far, as well as his thoughts and feelings, would fill his empty evenings while lightening the load on his spirit.

A woman sat in a rocking chair on the long porch. Yissi Sweetgrass, Will thought—a pretty blonde slip of a thing who rather reminded him of a faerie. Was she employed by Mrs. Scrubb? She didn’t appear very energetic, in fact seemed sluggish and vacant.

Smiling, he mounted the porch and, tipping his hat, nodded her way. “Good morning.”

As close as Will was to her, Yissi didn’t acknowledge his greeting, didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Instead she seemed to be gazing at the porch rail, a detached wisp of a smile on her face. Will knew she wasn’t deaf and blind and so couldn’t account for her behavior. She’d never ignored him before.

“You’re Miss Sweetgrass, aren’t you?” he said.

Still no response.

“Well, enjoy your day.” Without making any more attempts to secure her attention, Will entered the house. A bell tinkled, as if making up for Yissi’s rudeness by welcoming him. He stood for a moment in the entry and looked around.

To his left, on the other side of the stairway, spread a large parlor with double doors, a sizable fireplace, bookshelves, and a clutter of furniture covered in runners, doilies, and other fancywork. It must have been for the lodgers’ use. On his right, Will spied a kind of sitting room with papered walls, the far end of which was blocked from sight by a line of folding screens. He didn’t see Mrs. Scrubb, but she soon emerged from a room at the end of the central hallway. The widow smiled as she wiped her wet hands on her apron.

“Mr. Marchman! How nice to see you again.” She turned into the sitting room. “Come, and we’ll get you signed in.”

Will paused, bewildered. How could she know he was here as a guest? He asked Mrs. Scrubb that very question as he followed her to a small desk just inside the door. She sat down and opened a ledger.

“Oh, you didn’t know? The Eminence voxed me yesterday and said I should prepare my nicest room for your arrival. He said he was doing extensive work on his house’s interior and didn’t want to inconvenience you with the noise and mess.”

Will gulped as he set his valise on the floor. It wasn’t his place to dispute this fiction, so he let it stand. “Uh, yes. How very thoughtful of him. I didn’t know he’d already secured lodging for me.”

“He’s a very considerate man.” Mrs. Scrubb wrote in her ledger, then suddenly poked a finger into the air. “Ah! I must remember to vox the White Inn to tell them you’ll be staying here, not there. The Eminence wasn’t sure where you’d end up going.” Beaming, she clasped her hands in front of her bosom. “I’m so very pleased you chose my humble hostelry.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. I know you keep a good house.” Will couldn’t quite make out the ratio at the base of her throat and, of course, didn’t want to stare.

“I’ve given you the first-floor suite at the rear of the building,” she said, rising from the desk. “They’re the nicest accommodations I have—a sleeping room and sitting room, with a fine little stove and a bath next door. I had the house plumbed after Major’s passing.” She glanced over her shoulder as she led Will past the stairway and down the central hall. “I’m the only person you’ll have to share it with, unless you prefer using the upstairs bath. Three of the six rooms as well as the attic room are empty—winter coming, you know—so if you’d rather share the facilities with men instead of a silly old woman….”

“I’ll decide that later, thank you,” Will said, his cheeks warm with embarrassment. They passed a dining room on the right, then the kitchen.

“Your only inconveniences,” said Mrs. Scrubb as she unlocked the farthest door on the left, “will be stoking your stove and having to put up with cooking smells and some clanging of pots and pans as I wash up.” She broke her prattle to cast him another charming smile, this one shyer than the others. “If it’s any consolation, Major always said I was a cracking good cook.”