The Cursed Doctor

Part 6

I really shouldn't be fretting so much. He's an adult man. A doctor. Clearly, he can take care of himself. Clearly, I have no responsibility over him. The three days of no contact after he said he needed to die next to his beloved, that apparently being me, has left a ringing silence in my head that sounds like his actual death.

I bite my thumb nail almost to the point of it breaking.

He's even lived in peace, attending to the ever suspicious public, while being afflicted in such a heinous way, I try to convince myself. Understanding the nature of his state should only help him with that.

I nod.

I have no idea where he lives, so I've come to the only place associated with him— his clinic. I look up from my hand on the doorknob to the dark frosted glass of the unmarked door. I smile and recall the first time I was brought through its threshold, wondering why in my condition I wasn't brought to the hospital, then later why this doctor works completely alone. No nurses, no maids, no secretary. All these things are quite obvious to me now, but I'm sure some of his patients have been put out by it, perhaps even ran at the very sight of him. Likely those people are cold in their graves since only he knows how to cure the black plague.

People talk, but not about him. There is both so much and so little to say. It is only known that he arrived about a year ago, and then only speculated that he came alone, and then only rumored that the plague came with him. I'm recalling Damien with his perfectly fair and unfair assumptions. My teeth grind with renewed determination and I turn the door handle.

It's locked. I assumed it would be. Not even going to bother trying to knock.

First I put the basket in my left hand down, then relieve my shoulder of the heavy bag and follow its descent to the floor. Inside I pull out the grimoire I inherited from my grandmother. Luckily this alleyway is rarely traversed so I'm unafraid of being caught with such an incriminating item. Unless, he shows up. In which case the book was not needed.

I carefully move the ancient pages to the section on spells and then to mechanical spells specifically. Tampering with locks is very early in the section. I carefully peak into the keyhole below the knob. It may be dark but I can see through it, suggesting this lock is very simple. I smile, remembering how many locks the doors in my mothers house had. A house full of witches and mischief.

I read the familiar words of miklakah, the witch's language. The grimoire is tucked back into my bag before I'm caught holding it, and I stand, retrieving the basket on the way up. I lick the pad of my thumb and press it to the keyhole.

"Open door," I say in miklakah.

The once familiar heat of casting does not present itself on my thumb. I'm sure I pronounced it correctly. I hum in speculation. Do I need to hold the handle instead? As I do so it immediately feels like the wrong solution. I was the most mild-mannered of children in my family and rarely went into places I shouldn't, or take things I'm not told to. My sister would call me a coward. But she got caught constantly, and my grandmother would always have a potion of oblivion at the ready for when she did.

I shake the memory away and lean down to consult the grimoire again when it hits me. I snap my fingers with the realization and relick my thumb, tasting a bit of the cold metal on it.

"Open door," I try again in miklakah, then add, "my desires are beyond."

I'm rewarded with a tingling but when I try the handle it's still locked. I stomp my foot in frustration. The fairies that facilitate the magic only help if you tell them why you're casting and can tell if one's lying. Except I'm not lying. The desire is painful in my deep breaths, hot between my legs. I can almost hear their ethereal laughter in the wind as they watch me fail.