Sir Timothy scrutinized Anthea. “The Way? And you’re Leanan? But I could swear … How did they find you?”
“I really must go,” Anthea said. “I need to get back to the farm.”
But the old man was still keenly interested in her. “I’ll wager you didn’t volunteer,” he said. “Thrown into it by virtue of having the Way. But how did they find you?” He squinted at Anthea. “The Thornleys are lucky your family didn’t raise a protest, haul you back over the Wall by your hair.” He paused, and his eyes caught on the rose pendant pinned to Anthea’s coat. “A Rose Maiden, eh?”
“I’m Anthea Thornley,” Anthea said. “Andrew Thornley’s niece.”
Sir Timothy’s eyes went wide, and he went into a fit of coughing that nearly made him fall. Mary and Tim both rushed to prop him up and pound on his back, while Anthea dithered helplessly. Should she … what? She had no idea.
What is wrong? Florian asked. Should we go?
I don’t know! I don’t understand, she wailed mentally in response. I thought he knew Uncle Andrew! Why is he so upset that I’m Uncle Andrew’s niece?
“Genevia Cross-Thornley,” Sir Timothy gasped out when he had stopped coughing. Tim was trying to pull his grandfather back inside, but the old man shook him off gently. “You’re Genevia Cross-Thornley’s daughter.”
It was not a question, but Anthea nodded anyway. Her heart was stuttering in her chest. She had no doubt that he knew her mother, she could see it on his face. Knew her, and didn’t like her. How to tell Sir Timothy that the dislike was mutual?
Not that it’s any of his business, she thought to Florian. She lifted her chin.
“Your mother,” Sir Timothy grated out. “Your mother.”
Anthea started backing toward Florian. She wished she hadn’t tied him quite so tightly.
“Did she send you to spy on your uncle? Convenient that you also have the Way.” He stopped to cough. “Unless she cast you out for having it. Nothing would surprise me.”
“Sir Timothy,” Mary said in shock. “You are unwell!”
“Your mother, the spy, the book burner, the murderess.” Sir Timothy began to rant. “She’s the reason I’m here! She’s the reason Tim is here, and an orphan!” He pointed a gnarled and shaking finger at Anthea.
“I didn’t know,” Anthea gasped out. She kept backing toward Florian. “I thought she was dead!”
Tears sprang to her eyes. Florian was yanking on his reins, trying to pull free. Why, oh why didn’t she remember to only tie him with a slipknot? Anthea thought frantically as she tried to get his reins loose.
Tim was staring at Anthea as though she were a monster.
“That’s the lady you told me about?” He pulled at his grandfather’s arm. “The one who wanted you to die? Her mum?”
“No,” Anthea whispered.
“Ask your uncle,” Sir Timothy said roughly. “Ask yourself, where this illness started, and where your mother was when it did.”
“What?” Anthea froze.
“You think it was coincidence that the newspapers reported horses outside Travertine, and then a month later, an epidemic comes sweeping out of that same place?”
Anthea had finally gotten the reins untied. She was on Florian’s back and had a hold of Campanula and Goldenrod before she even registered it.
Let’s go, Florian urged.
I don’t like that man, Campanula announced. She pranced and tossed her head. I liked the boy. But I want to leave. Now.
“The instructions for gathering samples are in that packet,” Anthea said. “We’ll send someone else to collect them in a few days.” She sucked in a deep breath. “When Tim is older, send him to the Last Farm, he might have the Way.”
She turned Florian and they fled.
FLORIAN
Florian did not like the turmoil in Beloved Anthea’s mind. He did not like the stiff way she sat in the saddle, or the muddiness of her thoughts.
That man, the man with the cane, had said something to her. Something about That Woman Her Mother, the one who smelled of dying roses. Florian had not been paying attention, for which he blamed himself. The Boy Called Tim had been a cheerful young companion, with nosings of the Way, and so Florian did not see a threat in the Boy Called Tim’s home.
But the old man with the cane had been a threat. He had said things to Beloved Anthea that disturbed her. She had left without checking that he and the mares drank enough water, had not given them food, which was most unlike her. She would not talk all the way back home, and though Florian left her to her silence, he did not like it.
They returned to find Last Farm in an uproar. Alarmed, Florian called to Constantine to ask what he should do, should he take Beloved Anthea and the mares far from here?
No, came Constantine’s answer. The men were elated and had found a cure for this coughing sickness that plagued them. The Thornley was released from his exile, and moved among them again, and the lights and candles were not a sign of danger, but of their hard work making more medicine despite the lateness of the hour.
She Who Was Jilly came toward them, all laughter and smiles, but Beloved Anthea did not reply. She got down from Florian’s back, and then Florian did not know what to do.
Beloved Anthea gave his reins to She Who Was Jilly.
You must take care of them, Beloved Anthea told She Who Was Jilly, and walked away from Florian and the mares.
What are you doing? She Who Was Jilly demanded, and it was echoed by Florian’s thoughts.
I have to write a letter to the queen, Beloved Anthea said. She did not look back.
13
MAJOR GREGORY RETURNS
Anthea would have worried about how long it took for the queen to answer her letter, but she was far too busy.
Dr. Rosemary and the other scientists were manufacturing the vaccine as fast as they could. They tested it on the riders who were sick, to see if it could heal as well as prevent the disease. It was too early to tell, Dr. Rosemary said, but none of the ingredients could hurt them.
Keth was anxious for them to give it to his mother. Nurse Shannon had gotten steadily sicker, and he confided to Anthea that he was worried it was his fault.
“How could that be?” Anthea asked when he told her this.
They were in the stables, the horses tied in the aisles so that they could go down the line and groom them all. Anthea had Florian and Campanula at the end, so that she could do them last and spend more time on them. They had been very upset with her after the trip to Parsiny, and she was still apologizing a week later.
She finished up with Castor and moved on to his twin, Pollux. Keth coughed and moved to poor Hercules, whose rider had died three days earlier.
“Because of that,” Keth said, pointing to his mouth and coughing again. “This stupid cough! I should have been put in quarantine immediately! Instead I kept on sleeping in our tiny cottage and letting my mum take care of me!”
“I thought they tested you and it wasn’t the Dag,” Anthea said. She did her best not to take an involuntary step back, all the same.
“Yeah, but a week ago they didn’t know the Dag and ring pox were the same, either,” Keth said.
“But your mother definitely has the Dag,” Anthea argued.
She had helped Dr. Rosemary sort the samples taken from the riders and other residents of the farm just the day before. Two of the riders actually had pneumonia from riding too hard in wet weather, and not the Dag at all, and had been moved to one of the cottages to be treated by Dr. Hewett.
“You’ve had the Dag,” Anthea pointed out. “Well, its cousin anyway. You made me look at the scars on your shoulder.”
It had become like a secret society around the farm. Those who had had ring pox had taken to flashing their scars at each other, which made Anthea highly uncomfortable. She had never seen so many men’s stomachs, and had actually happened upon Keth and Finn comparing scars in the stable. Both of them had been shirtless, and while Keth was rather gangly, Finn most
certainly was not, and Anthea had been caught staring at the muscles of his back and shoulders, and then run off, blushing furiously.
“But how do they know?” Keth said.
“They know,” she said firmly. “These are some of the finest scientists in Coronam. They have been studying the Dag for months, using all the newest methods. Your mother will be just fine. You’ll see.”
Keth relaxed a little, nodding his head, and Anthea patted him on the shoulder the way she would a horse.
Jilly came in from taking her turn with the scientists, and grabbed a brush and comb from a bucket of supplies. Anthea and Keth had left Caesar and Buttercup for her, but she went over to Pollux.
“You’d better do Florian,” she said under her breath. “I can tell he’s still upset.”
After giving Pollux a final pat on the rump, Anthea moved down the line to Florian. He was standing with his head down, his tail and ears limp. Anthea put the brush on the top of a half door and put her arms around his neck.
My love, my love, she whispered to him. My love, my love, forgive me.
It had been a week, and Anthea had asked Florian to forgive her every day. He said that he was not angry with her, but something was clearly still wrong. Bluebell had nipped at Anthea’s hair, but then she had settled down to her usual self, and Goldenrod and Campanula had acted as though there was nothing to forgive. But something was still wrong with Florian.
You must tell me, darling, Anthea said, picking up the brush and beginning to sweep it down his shoulder. What is wrong?
That man upset you, Florian said.
And I am sorry that I was too upset to take care of you, Anthea replied. But I am all right now.
You are not all right, Florian countered. You are still upset, my beloved. And … and there are others. Something is not right.
A thrill of fear went through Anthea. Beyond Florian, Bluebell and Leonidas whickered and stamped.
What do you mean? What isn’t right? Anthea stopped brushing. Tell me!
Something is very wrong, Florian said. But I … Theophilus!
“What?” Anthea said aloud.
“What?” Jilly called out to her. “Did you say something?”
“Theophilus?”
“Gregory and Theo are supposed to stay at their posting,” Keth said. “He won’t be back for weeks.”
Anthea paused. She remembered sending Major Gregory and Theophilus and his group, the Theos, off. She reached out now, with the Way, looking for one of the horses from that group.
Theophilus was coming up the road, but she couldn’t find any of the others. Anthea slipped Florian’s lead free of the ring on the wall and gave a little tug, but he didn’t need it. They walked quickly out of the stable together, and then Anthea scrambled up onto his back so that she could see over the fences.
Theophilus came down the lane at a quick walk, with Gregory hunched over his neck. It looked like the major was tired, and no wonder. He had been positioned the farthest south of any of the riders, and if he had ridden straight back, both horse and rider must be exhausted. Anthea saw that Theophilus had a little hitch to his walk. She couldn’t believe that Major Gregory would keep going if his horse was lame, but maybe he really was asleep in the saddle.
Florian went rigid. He was facing into the wind, and he suddenly pointed with his nose toward Theophilus and his rider.
Blood. This is what is wrong.
Anthea urged the reluctant Florian forward until she could see Theophilus clearly. He was dark with sweat, his eyes visibly white-rimmed, and Gregory was slumped on his back like he was going to fall off at any moment. He wasn’t asleep, he was … gray.
Blood, came the impression from the horses in the nearest paddock. The iron tang of it filled Anthea’s nostrils as the stench reached the horses. At the center of the farm in his private field, Constantine reared onto his hind legs and screamed.
Anthea leaped down from Florian’s back and ducked out of the paddock. She hurried to Major Gregory, along with everyone else around who had the Way. They must have all gotten the same impression from the horses. When she reached Theophilus’s head and caught his reins, she saw that Gregory’s left side was dark and slick with blood.
“Major Gregory! Major Gregory!”
Anthea held the reins in her left hand and shook the man with her right. To her relief, Gregory groaned and tried to straighten up.
“Hold on, I’ve got you,” she told him, and began leading Theophilus toward the barn, where all the scientists were working.
Caillin MacRennie came charging onto the scene, took one look at the blood coating Gregory’s uniform, and took command.
“Get the surgeon! Get Hewett, I say!” he shouted.
He reached for Theophilus’s reins, and Anthea was more than willing to give them up, but Theophilus pulled away, and a clear impression of Anthea struck them both. It seemed that, distressed, the horse preferred the familiar touch of the girl who gave him carrots to the loud man shouting for a surgeon.
Hewett came limping out of the barn, his face already grim with concern. One of the scientists trailed behind him, still holding out a vial that he had been working with, but he shook his head at her and pointed to Theophilus. Anthea saw the woman’s mouth form an O, and she ducked back inside.
Hewett rolled up to them with his bent-legged gait and grabbed at Gregory’s coat. The heavy wool parted, and Anthea nearly fainted at the sight of the flesh underneath: bruised, bloodied, and with a large round hole that seeped more blood with every one of the major’s breaths. The blood looked dark and thick, and Anthea wondered if that meant something. Something bad.
“Shot,” Hewett announced. “Some filthy old musket, by the size of that hole. Get him down and into my house.”
Hewett’s house was one of the little stone cottages next to the Big House. When they reached it Finn was suddenly at her elbow, taking the reins from her. Theophilus didn’t seem to mind Finn, so she gave them up, and was wondering what to do with herself as two men dragged the unconscious and bloodied Major Gregory off the stallion’s back.
Good boy, Anthea said to Theophilus. Thank you for bringing the major home.
“Come along,” Hewett barked, and after a moment Anthea realized that he was talking to her. “I need assistance.”
The front room of the cottage was dominated by a long worktable, scrubbed pale and holding several books and a large candelabrum, since the only gaslights at the farm were in the main house. Dr. Hewett swept the books onto a chair and put the candelabrum on top of a china dresser in the corner.
“Lay him there,” he ordered the men carrying Gregory. He stuck his head back out the door. “Make sure that poor Theophilus gets the care he needs. Brave lad,” he said under his breath as he turned around. “Somebody light the candles.” He waved at the box of matches, and Anthea hurried to light the candelabrum and any other lamps she could find.
Carefully the men stretched Gregory out on the table, which was exactly the right length. Gregory gasped a little, and his eyelids fluttered, making Anthea cringe. She wondered how much pain he was in: Would he start screaming or thrashing about? She didn’t know if she could maintain her poise in such circumstances. She barely remembered her own injury and recovery from the year before; she had never been good around sick people or blood.
“Theo?” Gregory whispered.
“He’s fine,” Anthea whispered back. “He brought you safely home, and he’s about to have extra oats and a nice rubdown.”
“The scissors, Miss Thea, just there,” Hewett said as he washed his hands in a basin of water. He pointed to a heavy pair of shears on a side table. “Use them.”
“Use them to what?” Anthea went to the scissors, but didn’t pick them up.
“To cut off his coat,” the surgeon said.
“Um,” Anthea said.
“Come on now,” Dr. Hewett said. “I thought Rose Maidens were supposed to soothe fevered brows?”
“This isn’t—�
��
“You faced down Constantine, you can do this!”
Anthea closed her mouth, took the scissors in shaking hands, and went to Gregory’s side. He moaned as she began to gingerly cut through the blood-saturated wool of his coat. His eyes fluttered open and he stared at her as though he had never seen her before.
“Major?” Her voice was barely a whisper. She asked the question that had been on her lips since she’d seen the blood. “Who shot you?”
For a moment she thought he wasn’t capable of answering. His eyes closed, and his grayish lips moved without making any sound. Then his voice, thin and thready, followed.
“They did.”
“Who did?”
“The people.”
“What people, Major?” She leaned in close.
Beyond the injured man she could see Dr. Hewett filling a syringe with something … morphine probably. His face was twisted in a cynical expression that said he already knew the answer.
“The people in the village. Threw the medicine in the midden. ‘Horse-tainted,’ they said. Tried to get it back … tried to … save it. Shot me.”
The scissors dropped to the tabletop with a clatter. Now Anthea felt her own mouth stiffen into an O. She looked from the major, who had slipped into unconsciousness, to the surgeon, who stepped forward to give the wounded man the shot.
Dr. Hewett looked at Anthea’s pale face and smiled grimly.
“You didn’t honestly think that people were using the medicine, did you? You know what they’re like better than any of us. They’d rather die than touch anything ‘horse-tainted.’ ”
“But we can stop the Dag!” Anthea sputtered. “We can stop people from dying!”
“None of that matters if you trot into town on the back of a horse.”
“They shot him,” Anthea said later, for what was probably the hundredth time.
Her uncle handed her a glass, and she tossed back the water like it was whiskey and slammed the glass down on the table for emphasis.
“They shot him,” she choked out. “And he was delivering medicine for their children!”
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