Excerpt
“Are you ready?”
“Will it taste bad, Simon?”
“It will taste absolutely dreadful,” he said, and he smiled for her. She took the cup and looked into it. It looked like a miniature swamp, swimming with bracken and bits of matter. “Drink it all. Including the solid bits. Try to chew them a little if you can bear to.”
She tilted the cup into her mouth. The herbal stew poured into her like a caustic, burning her tongue and the back of her throat. She pitched forward instinctively to spit the brew out, but he caught her with one hand against her clavicle and the other over her mouth.
“That’s it, Delia. You can do this.”
She swallowed in fits, her eyes watering. “God,” she said, her voice choked. “Is this poison?”
“No, Delia. The tea is not going to kill you. Swallow it . . . that’s it, let it go down.”
He watched her settle as the last of the tea went down her esophagus. She clamped a hand over her stomach. “My God, Simon. That was the worst one yet.”
“Can you feel it in you? Spreading?”
She looked around, as if to check that her reality was as she remembered it. She was in her living room. In the house she had lived in since her wedding day. Her sons had been born in this house, and had grown into men against the backdrop of its walls. Eric had died here. She had grown old here. She would not make it to ripe old age.
“We’ll activate the compounds now, Delia.”
“Oh, can we skip the chanting, Simon? If you don’t mind. I feel like I might throw up.”
“Every plant and mineral has its own sound signature, and if you do not bring yourself into sync with it, it won’t work. Have you not been doing the chants?”
“I’ve been doing them,” she said. “They make me feel silly.”
“They’re an essential part of the treatment. I’ll do this one with you. A head tone for belladonna and low breath drone for the hops. Come on now.” He held his hands out to her, and she took them. He lowered his head, as if in prayer, and she did the same. He breathed in deeply, and a sound began to flow from the middle of his head, from the space behind his eyes and nose. He opened his mouth and the sound flattened. Delia followed him as best she could, alternating between the high, ringing tones, and the low, breathy ones.
When they stopped, she released his hands. She actually felt warm. For the first time in months, she felt warmth in her extremities. How pleasant, she thought. She felt Simon’s hands on her shoulders, easing her back. “Thank you, Simon,” she said quietly. “This is very nice.”
He brushed her hair away from her face, and cupped his hand on her cheek. “It is you who is to be thanked,” he said. “I thank you.”
Presently, Delia closed her eyes. He listened to her breathing — low, long, soughing breaths. He lifted an eyelid, but she was profoundly asleep. He watched her for another minute, observing
her becalmed features.
He put his vials back into the valise and went into the kitchen to wash his teacup. This too he replaced in the valise. He took his Polaroid camera out and checked that there was a film pack loaded. He was too careful to have come without being absolutely sure the camera had film, but he was also too fastidious not to check again.
He laid the camera on the coffee table and went to sit beside Delia. He took her wrist in his hand and felt her pulse. It was faint, as he would have expected, but steady. He ran his fingertips along the outside of her palm, and up her pinkie, then gripped the finger and snapped it at the bottom joint. Her body jumped, but her eyes did not open. The faintest moan escaped her lips.
