"Sandy?"
The pale figure curled up on the cot bed did not move.
"Sandy, it's me, Mal."
He went over to the bed. Mistress Cooke's idea of "clean" was a sweat-soaked shirt which clearly had not been changed in days, and the same breeches her patient was wearing last time Mal visited. Sandy's feet were bare and filthy, the toenails grown long, and his black shoulder-length hair was matted into elf-locks. Well, all of that could be remedied, at least. Having expected no better treatment in his absence, Mal had brought some of his own spare clothes and shoes this time.
"Bring me hot water and towels," he told Mistress Cooke. "And a pair of shears."
The matron looked offended but eventually complied. Neither the towels nor the water turned out to be particularly clean.
"Before you go," he said, "I would also like the keys to my brother's shackles. I cannot change his clothing as he is."
"Oh, you mustn't unchain him, sir. Master Charles was quite insistent about that."
"Charles gave him into my care. I pay the bills now, I will do with him as I see fit. And you will give me the keys."
Grumbling, Mistress Cooke removed a small iron key from the ring and handed it over.
"On yer own head be it, sir," she said and hurried out, locking the door behind her.
"Sandy?" Mal put the bucket of water down by the bed. "Sandy? They've gone now."
"I'm not here," Sandy whispered. "You can't see me."
He was right, then. The warders had been allowing paying customers in here.
"It's all right, Sandy," he said, "there's no one here but me. It's Mal, your brother."
"Brother?" Sandy sat up suddenly. The chains joining the iron manacles slithered into his lap.
"Yes, your brother, Mal."
He took up the shears and began trimming his brother's hair and beard, taking care to keep the blades well away from Sandy's eyes. One sudden seizure and… He drew a deep breath and forced himself to continue. At last it was done. He ruffled Sandy's hair, sending a last few severed curls tumbling into the rushes.
"There, now you look yourself again."
Sandy smiled back, his features a gaunt mirror-image of Mal's own. Same black hair, same straight nose and narrow jaw, same dark eyes – no, not the same. Not any more. It was as if a stranger looked out at him, a stranger who wore his twin's shape like an ill-fitting suit of clothes. But if he were possessed, it was by no demon any priest had been able to drive out.
Mal unlocked the shackles around Sandy's wrists and ankles, wincing at the sight of the chafed and blistered flesh. He bound the wounds with clean bandages then set about stripping off his brother's filthy clothes. Sandy began to shiver.
"Come on, you big baby, it's not that cold," Mal said with a smile, and dipped a bit of flannel into the tepid water.
"My brother is coming," Sandy moaned, staring past Mal and pointing. "He is coming for me."
"Yes, I'm coming for you soon, to take you away from here." He took the thin, cold hand in his own. "But there's something I have to do first. A job."
"I was all alone." Sandy's eyes focused on him at last. "You're not him. I see him in my dreams. Old, so old…"
"Father?" Their father was dead. If he were still alive, none of them would be in this mess.
"No. I told you." Sandy pulled his hand away. "My brother."
Mal frowned. Their elder half-brother Charles had been no more than thirty when they last saw him. Sandy must be thinking back to his childhood.
"Charlie's gone, Sandy, he left us here in London." You in this hell-hole and me in whatever job will earn me enough to keep you from dying in here. "He's not coming back."
"Not coming back?"
"No. There's just me now."
He helped Sandy dress, then gently replaced the shackles. Sandy whimpered as the metal closed around his limbs and Mal feared he would struggle, but after a moment Sandy fell silent and lay down on the bed once more.
Mal sat with him until the bell of nearby St Botolph's tolled the hour. Sandy seemed to take comfort from his presence, and Mal could think of nothing to say that would not spoil that. If only… He cursed his stupidity. Now he had money again, he could redeem his lute. Sandy always found his playing soothing. Well, there was always next time.
A key grated in the lock, and the cell door opened. Mal got to his feet.
"Goodness me," said Mistress Cooke, "I can scarce tell the two of you gentlemen apart now. I hope I lets the right one out!" She laughed at her own joke, chins quivering.
Mal was not amused. He counted out the fifty-two shillings under her avaricious gaze.
"That is for this quarter. I will be back every week, to ensure you are keeping my brother in the comfort I am paying for."
"Of course, sir. Everything will be done as you wish, sir."