by Beth Revis
“Just me,” I said.
* * *
• • •
If it weren’t for Master Ostrum’s evening sessions and living at the dormitory every night, I wouldn’t have felt like a student at all. I’d long since given up lectures, and I’d stopped bothering with Salis’s study hall as well. In any other school, I would be at risk of losing my scholarship, but at Yūgen, my fate rested in Master Ostrum’s hands. And even if he hadn’t approved of my work, it wouldn’t matter—sacrificing a chance at a second year of school was worth it if it meant I could spend this crucial time studying the Wasting Death.
I spent every morning, lunch, and afternoon at the quarantine hospital. I got to know every potion maker in the wing, and if Alchemist Frue was on shift, many of them came to me before they got him.
“Nedra?” Mrs. Rodham stood in the door of the potion room, where I’d been taking inventory. Alchemist Frue had a reputation for being stingy with potions, but we were so close to running out of tincture of blue ivy, I could almost forgive him.
Mrs. Rodham was a volunteer like me, but she was neither an alchemist nor a potion maker, just someone who wanted to help the patients. She had come to the quarantine hospital with her entire family, all suffering from the Wasting Death. Her husband and eldest daughter had already passed, but her younger son was still alive, although in the sleeplike state that heralded death. No one had the heart to tell Mrs. Rodham that there was no point in her staying at the hospital; her son was already gone even if he was still breathing. So while he slept, she helped, as best she could with her recently amputated leg, the only thing that had spared her from dying as well.
“Yes?” I asked her.
“There’s a family . . .” Mrs. Rodham’s voice trailed off.
“I’ll be right there.” I pocketed a small bottle of tincture of blue ivy; it was running low, but Frugal Frue wouldn’t notice one more gone, at least not before our next shipment came.
Mrs. Rodham led me to one of the rooms at the end of the hall, her steps uneven, the cane she now used clacking against the tiles.
“How is it?” I asked. She had adapted well to her amputation, better than many who were younger than her. I suspected all her grief—both over the deaths in her family and at the loss of her limb—were being held at bay by the little rises and falls of her young son’s chest, regardless of whether his eyes opened or not.
“I’m adjusting,” she said. “There are worse things to lose than a leg.”
Mrs. Rodham stopped outside of a door just as one of the potion makers exited a room. “You the alchemist?” the potion maker said.
“Nedra.” I held out my hand. “Student, but I can do alchemy.”
“Good.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m Fadow. They’re . . . they need someone. They had a rough trip.”
“Trip?”
“Came from one of the villages to the north. We’re getting more of them lately.”
“That’s why I thought to get you, dear,” Mrs. Rodham said. We’d talked often of our homes over lunch or quick breaks; most of the potion makers and alchemists were from the city, but we were both from the north.
I walked into the room, my stomach twisting in knots.
“See, someone’s here,” a man said. He had a low, soothing voice that was cracked through the middle with panic.
Two of the beds were occupied, one with a woman, one with a school-age boy. Along with the man was another boy, maybe a few years older than the first.
“Has Alchemist Frue been here?” I asked, scanning the patient.
The man rushed forward, his hat twisting in his hand. “No,” he said, and I could almost feel his frustration. “They shoved us in a room, and they’ve just given us water and told us to wait, and wait, and wait.” He spat the last word out. “Can you help us?”
“The hospital is overcrowded,” I said, “and we’re short on alchemists. But I can help.”
“Thank you,” the man said. “My name’s Dannix. My wife and son are sick.” He gestured to them, then moved to the wall with his other son, giving me room to work.
I checked the child first, at the mother’s insistence. Both legs were covered in blackness, his feet so twisted he could no longer keep shoes on them. The inky stain of the disease was well past his knees, and the analytical medical student in me knew that if he survived, it would be a miracle.
The woman seemed better off—at first.
“It’s here,” she said, pulling her shirt down. Darkness bled over her heart. I kept my face schooled, but I was close enough to the woman that I was certain she saw her own doom written in my eyes. There was nothing I could do to help her; she would either live or not, and only one in a hundred survived the Wasting Death when it infected the heart. Her fate fell to the gods and whether or not her body was strong enough to push the infected blood to a disposable limb.
I forced a cheerful smile on my face. “At least you don’t have any film over your eyes,” I said, lifting her eyelids to check. “If you did, that would mean the disease was in your brain. No cure then.”
The man sagged with relief. “See, you’ll be fine!” he told his wife, running to her side and clutching her hand.
Her eyes didn’t leave mine. I saw the question there, unasked as her husband knelt, his head over their clasped fingers, muttering a quick prayer. She wanted—needed—honesty. She would hold on if there was hope. But I didn’t know what to tell her.
The boy in the other bed moaned, and his mother flicked her fingers toward him. “Take care of my son,” she said.
I nodded, swallowing down the lump in my throat. The older boy, the patient’s brother, moved closer. “Are you going to do the magic?” he asked.
I smiled at him, and somehow I was able to pretend like this was a normal smile, a normal conversation. “It’s not magic,” I said. “It’s science. But it does feel like magic.” In the hospital, I carried my crucible on a leather strap, looped to hold the golden vase. I also had a shoulder bag made of cloth-covered metal with a latched wooden door on the front. I set the bag down, opening the door and withdrawing a rat. The brother leaned over, fascinated, as I dropped the creature into my golden crucible.
“What’s your name?” I asked my patient.
“Jax.” His voice was barely audible. “Are you going to cut my legs off?”
There was no point in lying. The flesh had long since withered and died, the skin black and crackling, dark blood oozing in spots.
“Not me personally,” I said. “But amputation is likely.”
The boy breathed as if this news was a relief. His brother looked more upset by the possibility of it than him. Behind us, I heard their father start to cry.
“And who are you?” I asked his brother as I adjusted the crucible on a nearby table.
“Ronan,” the boy said in a small voice.
“Mrs. Rodham told me that you were all from a village to the north. I am, too. Which one are you from?”
“The daffodil gate.”
Mentally, I said a quick prayer of thanks. The villages behind the daffodil gate were on the other side of Hart, in the cliffs, about as far away from my village as it was possible to be.
“Jax,” I said, turning to my patient, “this isn’t going to hurt a bit. In fact, it’s going to make everything better.”
I chanted the runes quickly, watching them light up, shining through the golden crucible. The rat sitting in the base of the vessel clawed more frantically along the edges.
“What happens to the rat inside?” Ronan asked, peering into the crucible.
I thought about lying to the child to make the truth easier, but there was no point in that. Someone like Ronan was too surrounded by death to feel the balm of a lie. “The pain has to go somewhere. The rat will take it for your brother.”
“That’s mean,”
Jax said, but his voice was already less tightly wound as I connected with his body, forming the bridge between him and the rat.
“I know,” I said.
“I don’t care,” Ronan said, his voice more forceful than before.
I concentrated on the task at hand. Alchemist Frue would likely pull this boy into surgery before the end of the day, but before that, at least, I could help ease the pain. I closed my eyes, focusing on the buzzing sensation of his life force. I tugged the pain from the boy’s body, and it passed through me, like a river rushing through reeds, and then I pushed the pain down, down, into the rat. The rodent screamed, but I blocked the noise out.
When I released my grip on both Jax and the crucible, the rat was alive, but barely. The creature’s tongue hung out, and it panted against the metal base of the vessel, its ragged breath casting little clouds against the gold. I tipped the crucible over, putting the rat back into the shoulder bag that served as its cage.
“Thank you,” Ronan said. Jax had slipped into a blissful, pain-free sleep, his body exhausted.
“And my wife?” the older man said, drawing my attention back to him. “Can you use the magic on her?”
I swallowed. Alchemy wouldn’t help her. Taking her pain away might take away her life, stilling her heart so much it quit pumping blood. It would be risky.
“It would be best if you bore the pain,” I told her, seeking her eyes. I reached into my pocket and withdrew the bottle of blue ivy tincture. “If it gets to be too much,” I said, carefully choosing my words, “take this.”
“What will it do?” the husband asked.
I didn’t take my gaze away from the woman’s. “It will make you sleep.” I stressed the final word. “But take no more than three drops every six chimes.” Her eyes widened a little with understanding, and her chin dipped, nodding, letting me know she understood. She took the bottle from me and held it in the palm of her hand.
“Thank you,” her husband said. He moved around the bed to shake my hand. His grip was painful; he clutched my fingers as if they were a lifeline. “Thank you so much. You’re the first person who helped. Thank you.” His voice cracked. “Ronan, come here, thank the alchemist.”
“I’m not a—” I started. The boy held his hand out to me. His grip was far weaker. For the first time, I really focused on him, not the patients in the beds. Ronan’s skin was sallow, dark shadows under his eyes.
Dark shadows on his fingertips.
My grip on his hand tightened reflexively. He saw where I was looking and snatched his hand away, cramming it into his pocket.
His father hadn’t noticed. His brother and mother were too ill to have seen.
But I saw it.
He shook his head, just barely. Don’t tell, his eyes pleaded with me.
His father couldn’t take another loss.
FOURTEEN
Grey
Nedra looked like a ghost, and Master Ostrum didn’t care.
I gave my daily report to the professor first, as usual, but when Master Ostrum flicked his hand to dismiss me before listening to Nedra’s report of her day working at the hospital, I didn’t move.
“It’s not right,” I muttered.
“Excuse me?” Master Ostrum said, his tone pitching lower.
“You’re exhausting her,” I said, flinging a hand toward Nedra. Her eyes widened at my outburst. “You’re treating her like a slave, as if she’d already taken the robes, but she’s still a student. It’s been more than a week since you asked for volunteers, and since then Nedra practically lives at the quarantine hospital.”
“Grey—” Nedra started.
“It’s not fair, and it’s not right,” I insisted.
“Grey.” Her voice was firmer now.
“If Ms. Brysstain would like to forgo her appointments at the hospital, she is free to. She’s a volunteer, not, as you say, a slave.” Master Ostrum’s voice held finality, but I didn’t move.
Nedra dropped a hand on my arm. “Grey, I can make my own choices,” she said. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m doing what I want to do.”
I growled in frustration and stood to leave. I waited at the steps outside the administration building. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to tell Nedra, but when she pushed open the doors and descended the steps toward me, all words dried up in my mouth.
“I appreciate your concern,” Nedra said, biting off the words, “but don’t ever do that again. I can speak for myself.”
I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut again. “Sorry,” I muttered. We started walking across the quad to the dormitories. “But I’m right.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m right,” I said, stopping and turning to her. “You’re always at the hospital. You need a break.”
“They need help, Grey.” She sounded defeated. “But apparently Master Ostrum agrees with you. He told me to take tomorrow off for Burial Day.”
“Good!” I said, but then I groaned aloud.
“What’s wrong?” Nedra asked.
“Burial Day means no school tomorrow.”
“I fail to see how that’s a bad thing.”
“It also means I’ll have to go home in the morning to see my family for the holiday.”
Nedra snorted. “And that’s the most horrific possible fate for you to bear?” she guessed.
“You have no idea,” I said emphatically. She laughed.
We reached the steps to the dormitories where the paths split between the male and female housing. “Well,” Nedra said, “if you survive, I suppose you could come with me to church hall.”
My brows scrunched in thought. “Church hall?” Oryon was the official religion of the Empire, but few actually practiced it. I barely knew where the chapel was on campus.
“You’ve never been to a Burial Day celebration?” Nedra asked. I shook my head. “Meet me here at four chimes,” she ordered. Her eyes were alight, and for one moment, I considered leaning down and stealing a kiss before we went our separate ways. But before I could work up the courage, she said good night and left me under the glittering stars alone.
* * *
• • •
Mother had outdone herself with the spread, thanks to help, of course, from the servants. The long mahogany table in our dining room held more food than a dozen people could reasonably eat, even though only three chairs would be filled and Mother would insist on eating only half an orange and a soft-boiled egg. Spilling over the lace-lined brocade runner in the center of the table were three different loaves of bread, at least eight sparkling jars of jams in different jewel tones, a pot of herbed honey, a plate of cheeses already sliced and chilling on cold marble, four different bowls of fruit that each had a different fake bird preening in the center, two silver tureens with steam drifting up, a dozen soft-boiled eggs in bowls beside cups and a dozen more deviled and sprinkled with paprika on a platter. One whole cold chicken garnished with lemon peel and rosemary had been placed in the center of the spread.
“Greggori!” Mother cried, jumping up from the chair. Her hair was pulled back so tight it lifted the fine lines near her eyes. She held a steaming mug of tea, black with lots of sugar. Then her eyes narrowed. “Your father should be here.”
“It’s fine, Mother,” I said, pulling out a seat at the long table and plopping into it.
Mother scratched the back of my neck until I straightened my shoulders and sat up in the chair. “I’ll be right back,” she said in a singsong voice, but I could detect the tension underlying her tone.
I ate three deviled eggs before the door opened again. Mother entered, her arm through Father’s, her grip so tight her fingertips were white. “Your son is back from school,” she said, her voice crackling like lightning. “We are having breakfast together.”
“Hello, Greggori,” Father said. Mother pushed him into the chair oppos
ite me, the cold chicken on the table between us. “How is Yūgen?”
My mouth was full of egg, and by the time I swallowed, Father’s eyes grew distant and uninterested. He stood and fetched himself a cup of coffee.
Mother chattered away about having the whole family back together again, but I didn’t know why she clung to the idea so vehemently. Even when I hadn’t been at Yūgen, we rarely ate together. Father had a standing table at the gentleman’s club near the castle, and Mother never let something as simple as a meal get in the way of a party that had a good gambling room.
“What I want to know,” Father said, his voice silencing Mother’s, “is what you kids think about the new governor. And the Emperor.” He narrowed his eyes over the cold chicken, and I remembered the whispers in the garden the night of Governor Adelaide’s inauguration.
“I haven’t really kept up with politics,” I said. “I’ve been more focused on learning medicinal alchemy.”
Father grunted.
“You know,” I added, “there is a plague sweeping through Lunar Island. Didn’t you see the governor’s declaration?”
Mother tried to steer us to a different topic, but Father interjected. “A plague. It’s just those dirty farmers and factory workers. Not a single person uphill of Castleborough has gotten so much as a sniffle. Plague,” he said again, his voice mocking. “They don’t need alchemists; they need soap.”
Mother’s clear voice cut across the table. “Greggori, have you met any nice girls at Yūgen?”
“Mother, it’s the same girls I’ve been at preparatory school with since I was three,” I said.
That wasn’t true. But sitting at this glittering table with my parents made me want to keep Nedra a secret, protecting her from their elitism and judgment.
“And none of you kids has even noticed the Emperor’s still holed up at the castle like a coward? That the governor’s distracting everyone from her policies by blowing this plague out of proportion?” Father continued. His hand gripped a dull knife, jam leaking down one side.