The Plague Diaries

by Ronlyn Domingue

  When I pushed him to his back, I planted my knees next to his hips and locked his wrists above his head, kissing him until the need for air drew us apart. My palms drifted across his face, throat, chest.

  He knew what I’d done with someone else, and I knew he, too, had sated some curiosity. Neither was as surprised by the other’s revelation as we perhaps should have been. I was grateful then as my fearless hands slipped lower and he arched into me.

  Nikolas clutched the bare curves of my thighs. “I’ve thought—imagined—it’s not that I don’t want to—but—”

  “But not yet,” I said, willing though I was, thinking of what herbs I’d have to brew.

  “Despite your advances, I shall remain a virgin king,” he said.

  “Just barely,” I said.

  As I stripped him naked and he did the same to me, I tried to remember what I’d learned from those salacious books, then abandoned myself to the pleasure of giving and receiving. To touch, to be touched, transcended the erotic. I didn’t know how starved I was—so hungry to be held, to hold—until his bare skin fed mine.

  When we finally exhausted each other, I leaned against his side.

  “I don’t want you to, but you’ll have to go soon,” he said.

  “Must I? Let’s blame it on the plague. I’m sure we’re not the only ones entwined tonight.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” I searched myself for remorse, for shame, for modesty—and found none. I felt the purity of my own desire, and regardless of all I had been taught, this was a sacred gift. The aliveness was mine. “You’re beyond reproach. I’ll bear the judgment as long as you promise this will happen again.”

  “My valet will come in after first light. I won’t compromise your virtue.”

  “You have, with my full consent,” I said.

  He laughed. “Regardless, you’re not staying.” He laid his hand over my left breast. I touched him in the same place. A pulse thread its way into my palm, spiraled around my heart, and joined another cord he’d wound there long ago. I squeezed my eyes shut but couldn’t stop the tears.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You truly love me.”

  “Truly.”

  “Always.”

  “Always.” Nikolas shifted the pillow under his head. “Will you tell me tonight, before morning comes and I can’t hear your voice again until the plague allows it?”

  “Tell you what?”

  He traced the queen’s hidden stings, waiting.

  “I love you, Nikolas.”

  “Love, I love you, too.”

  I settled into the curve of his body. His arms wrapped around me. Never in my life had I felt so safe.

  – Part III –

  WEEK 1

  Under a table, against a wall across from a fire,

  I sat, swaddled in spiderwebs.

  Across the room, a basket wobbled back and forth.

  Infant screams filled my ears. The ogress loped

  toward the cries. A feral stink billowed from her

  skirt’s hem. A crow called. Glass cracked.

  The ogress listened for another sound.

  She bent at the waist, spilling yellow mushrooms

  from her apron, and searched through the shadows,

  across the floor, to the corner—

  I awoke with my throat raw from screaming. My limbs splayed across the bed as I tore myself from the dream’s clutches. When I opened my eyes, I saw the haze of first light. I remembered where I was, whose bed I’d left hours before, that it was the twenty-first of June, the summer solstice.

  “It’s morning,” I said but heard no sound. The plague left me speechless.

  I tried to sleep again, but a soothing hum in my chest kept me awake. What is Harmyn doing now? I wondered as I dressed. When I knocked on her door, she didn’t answer. As I crossed through the parlors—resisting the urge to climb the stairs and find Nikolas—the vibration grew stronger. My feet led me onward, beyond the private residence, through the main courtyard, under the gatehouse, to the castle’s outer wall.

  On the green near the entry gate, several guards, servants, officers, and advisers clustered together, unable to see who sang above. I found a stairway and reached the top.

  The rising sun shone full on Harmyn’s face. I noticed her eyes were a deeper violet, and the indigo rims of her irises were thicker.

  She sang in tones, the sound purer than a bell’s chime, truer than a crystal’s ring, an element in and of itself. Harmyn smiled as I stood transfixed, listening as the matter within me churned, shifted, changed. I wanted to hold the resonance like a stone. A stone, I thought, the philosopher’s stone of alchemy . . . what if it isn’t tangible but incorporeal, like light, like sound? This?

  Through a gap between clouds, a flight of blue swallows appeared, circled over Harmyn’s head, then spiraled around me. One hovered near my face and said, The sickness has not spread. You will receive word when it does. Relieved, I thanked him.

  When Harmyn finished her song, a shudder streaked from my center through my skin. The birds converged above us and parted into four groups flying north, south, east, and west.

  Harmyn swung a little bell from side to side in front of her. I noticed then my hearing was slightly muffled and my eyesight somewhat clouded.

  “You can’t speak, but I can hear you,” Harmyn said, then tapped her temple. And you can hear me. Her words reached me in the same way I communicated with creatures and plants.

  Can everyone speak this way? I asked.

  No, but I can, with whomever I choose. It’s something I discovered I can do, she said.

  How?

  In a dream, she said. She pinched the amulet at her neck.

  Why are you singing now, here?

  I discovered some songs can clear away the poison, like a breeze. Everyone will struggle enough with their own shadows without getting sicker from what other shadows leach out. I’ll do this in the morning to help everyone feel better. They should feel a hum in their bodies even if they’re not close enough to hear me, Harmyn said.

  I did. That’s why I came to find you, I said.

  Harmyn peered over the wall to the street. She waved at the small crowd gathered below. As we returned to the castle, people looked at her with a curious awe, almost with fear, and a few bowed their heads to her. She returned the glances with a peaceful smile.

  I have a job now. I need a uniform. Could I have some new clothes? Harmyn asked.

  Not bothering to contain my surprise, I told her I’d take her out after breakfast, as we had an open day. We weren’t due to help in the Warrick garden until later in the week.

  As we walked to the ward of Dalglen, adjacent to Warrick, the morning’s bustle seemed like every other, except for the quiet. The shops and offices, which weren’t among Fewmany Incorporated enterprises, were open. There, the workers and customers went about their routines. Tell-a-Bells chimed along our way, but the wearers, now mute, didn’t list their tolls aloud. Not a single newsbox had a speaker; word of what was happening within Rothwyke, Ailliath, and abroad was left unspoken.

  Those who stopped to greet acquaintances touched their throats or mouths and shook their heads. Some reached into pockets or satchels to grab notebooks or paper slips. Their conversations took place as an exchange of written words.

  When we arrived at Margana Bendar’s shop, she was outside sweeping. At the sight of us, she set aside the broom, startled me with a light hug, and then stood staring at Harmyn.

  Harmyn pointed at the blue crystal in her necklace. “You know who we are,” she said in the Guardians’ language.

  Margana nodded with tears in her eyes. I thought of Old Woman and Naughton for a moment. All Guardians wore their blue in some way, always in plain sight. I’d never made the connection with her.

  “I’m not afflicted, so I’ll speak,” Margana said quietly. “Word traveled among us in the past weeks. We’ve been told about you three—you, Secret, and
you, Harmyn, and the king—and that a change was coming. Our aid is crucial now.”

  Were you born among or away? I wrote in my notebook, referring to a distinction Aoife made about those who were Guardians by birth, like Wei, or by integration, as Aoife was.

  “Among. My mother and I moved here when I was thirteen. If you listen carefully, you can still hear the lilt of my accent,” Margana said. “I heard you sing this morning, Harmyn. Such a beautiful voice.”

  “Thank you. It’s my honor to serve,” Harmyn said.

  “So, then, we could talk more, but you came here for a reason today. What is that?” Margana asked.

  “I’m to get new clothes. Secret said you could make something special. I would like a uniform,” Harmyn said.

  “Let’s see what we can do,” Margana said, gesturing for us to follow.

  Two women and three children sat inside the shop, their hands busy embroidering designs on fabric scraps. From some of their faces, I could tell they were new to the skill or hadn’t used it in some time. Draped over the center of the table near them was a length of cloth, Guardian blue.

  Margana piled several books on the table. “Sit down with these and see what appeals to you. And on those shelves, you’ll find fabric samples. Touch them, look at the colors, and decide what you like. I’ll come back to talk with you soon. Secret, a word . . .”

  Margana paused to praise one girl’s needlework, prompting a gap-toothed smile. I stepped out alone.

  Compared to other wards, especially those central and south, Dalglen had moderate damage. The street in front of her shop had no major repairs, and the buildings had the usual cracks of their age. On that block, several shops and offices were closed with massive chains or boarded windows. Nearby, a teahouse, a tavern, and an apothecary remained open. I watched customers step in and out.

  “Well, they are busier than usual,” Margana said.

  Distressing to see others closed as they are, I wrote.

  “Men came yesterday evening to shut the buildings. This morning, a few workers forgot they had no jobs and arrived at their usual times. I’ll not soon forget the looks on their faces,” she said.

  How are you? I wrote.

  “Aside from a dry throat, I’m well. I likely won’t have enough work in the coming weeks. My service, though, is through the practical trades—teaching piecework and tailoring—but some of my pupils wanted to learn embroidery and applique and how to sew. That’s who’s here today. How are you?”

  Sight and hearing not as sharp, but otherwise fine. Not speaking, not difficult yet. I’ll serve in the gardens, try to keep busy, look after Harmyn.

  “I didn’t expect a boy. I’d been told Voices are usually girls,” Margana said.

  Looks deceive. She’s accustomed to wearing boys’ clothes. She’s allowed some eccentricity, I suppose, I wrote.

  “Is she as gifted as I heard they could be?”

  You cannot imagine.

  “Secret, look! Margana, I want one of these,” Harmyn said.

  She stepped out with her arms flung wide. The violet silk frock coat had exaggerated saffron-colored lapels and flared to her knees from a fitted back. Silver buttons as small as blueberries dotted the length of the placket. The cuffs reached to her fingertips.

  “With some alterations, it’s yours. It’s one of my play pieces, which has found for whom it was made,” Margana said.

  “May I accept?” Harmyn asked.

  I nodded.

  “Thank you! Let me show you the drawings I like, but I have some ideas to change them,” Harmyn said.

  Inside, Harmyn went to the table where two books lay open on top of the blue cloth. I brushed my hands across it, so smooth, I couldn’t resist caressing it.

  “Incredible, isn’t it? I didn’t order the bolt but it arrived with my name on the tag. The courier refused to take it back, saying payment was in order,” Margana said.

  What are you going to make with it? I wrote.

  “I don’t know yet. It would make beautiful drapes or a stunning dress. So then, Harmyn, show me what you liked,” Margana said.

  When I drew close to Harmyn, near enough to hold her, a chill ran through my arms.

  At the end of that first day, Harmyn and I had an informal dinner with Nikolas, and we retired to one of the parlors. Harmyn surprised him with a conversation I couldn’t hear. Nikolas seemed relieved he could communicate with her. They played a game while I skimmed a book. Afterward, Harmyn excused herself to go to bed.

  Nikolas beckoned me with the curl of his fingers. With his guard trailing behind, I followed him to his office. Once the door closed behind us, he pulled me close and kissed me with cheerful ardor, which I returned. Nikolas withdrew a clothbound notebook from his pocket and wrote,

  I enjoyed our pleasant evening.

  Which one? I wrote underneath.

  He smirked. You seem well enough. Any pain? he wrote.

  No. You?

  Arms sore, right much worse than left. At meetings today, men moved stiffly, some kept rubbing hands. Everyone silent, but I’ve been told that’s not the case for all.

  Correct. Perhaps Harmyn can explain soon enough, I wrote.

  When I passed the notebook to him, he put it away. From the look in his eyes, I could see he was tired. I wished for the comfort of a conversation, especially then at the close of the plague’s first day and after what happened the night before. Absent that, I wrapped my arms around his waist and leaned into his heartbeat. His sigh confirmed that was enough.

  WEEK 2

  IN THE MIDDLE OF THE second week, on the thirtieth of June, we went to the first concert on the plaza. As long as everyone was able to hear, musicians retained by Ailliath and Rothwyke would give a free performance one evening a week.

  A carriage would take Nikolas to the event. Harmyn and I decided to walk that evening. She and I arrived early, before the time Father said he’d meet us, and took a peek behind Fewmany Incorporated to see the stalled construction. Skeletal beams etched against the sky. The completed buildings had cracks along the sides. I dared to step across the open ground. The faintest groan reached my feet. There had been no recent reports of tremors or widening crevices. What I felt, I was certain only I could feel.

  As we stepped back toward the plaza, Harmyn spotted Father and rushed to him. He waved with his left hand—gloved—and took a notebook from his pocket. He struggled to hold the pencil in his right hand, his fingers stiff.

  Harmyn gestured for him to put it away. “I’m not sick. I can talk and also . . .”

  Father’s eyes glowed like a boy’s watching magic tricks. She was speaking to him within his thoughts. Father pointed at me.

  “He wants to see me three times a week, to teach me to read and write,” Harmyn said.

  Father gave me a serious look. His request didn’t surprise me, but the splinter of jealousy, which needled my stomach, did.

  As Harmyn and Father spoke without a sound, I looked out to the growing crowd. Based on their clothing alone, I could tell the people’s stations and watched them cluster together. Some children and adults chatted in their notebooks, but most people gestured in greeting and stood in groups. Nearby, a woman kept her voice low as she talked to three others. Since we’d sickened, I’d noticed the few who could speak whispered instead, as if out of respect for the majority’s silence.

  Aside from their muteness, the children seemed well, at least physically. The adults didn’t fare the same. During those first days, the adults showed increasing signs of afflictions. Some had limp, atrophied, or spastic arms; a few were affected this way in the legs. Now and then, a person would venture out hunched or contorted, struggling to walk as if carrying a weight. Others had bulging veins in their necks and temples, so profound it seemed painful. By then, I knew I wasn’t the only one whose vision and hearing weren’t clear.

  A cymbal crash startled me. Lord Sullyard, a Council member who lived outside of Rothwyke and wasn’t yet afflicted, read a welcome on
behalf of Nikolas and Mayor Pearson. After that, the conductor handed a horn to Nikolas, who made everyone laugh with a first bleat and impressed them to applaud as he held a long low blare.

  As the orchestra began to play, Harmyn pointed to children she knew from the Warrick garden, including Julia, and ran off to join them. She stopped to select a colorful pinwheel from a basket of them offered by a young man in a blue vest.

  Father struggled to write a message. Come dinner end week w/ H. Elinor cook. You look well. No pains?

  I wrote below his words, Will do. Yes, well.

  I was about to write more when I felt a light tap on my arm. Leo Gray shook Father’s hand, then mine when I offered it. He held up a notebook. At the bottom of the page, he’d written,

  This is my wife, Hyacinth, & my son, Solden.

  I nodded at his wife, who was as beautiful in person as she was in the luminotype on his desk. The boy looked at me politely and refrained from blowing his own pinwheel.

  She wore her notebook around her neck like a pendant, the pages held between two gold covers with a tiny pencil slipped into a slot on the side.

  How wonderful we have this amusement, Mrs. Gray wrote.

  Indeed, I wrote in my notebook, then handed it to her.

  Leo says you were his favorite apprentice, she wrote.

  I learned much from him. He’s a brilliant teacher.

  She glanced at him with affection. How are you doing your service?

  New gardens. You?

  Reuse League. Clothing, furniture to mend.

  Leo slipped between us and opened his hand for my notebook. Mrs. Gray waved herself away.

  Still no word from Fewmany. Wesley & Cuthbert furloughed. Only Rowland and me now, he wrote.

  Didn’t know. Sorry, I wrote.

  Time for Cuthbert. Eyesight awful. Worry about Wesley. Married now, wife expecting in September.

  With luck, affliction will lift soon. How do you fare?

  Sore upper back. Muffled hearing. You? he wrote.

  Vision bit clouded. Hearing also muffled, I wrote.

  Strange what has befallen us.