Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
The sick writhe and moan on floormats surrounding the raised centre of the nave, under the dome. Strips of wet fabric cling to their foreheads, bright white against the feverish red of their cheeks. Next to me, Quin dry retches at the smell. Under a sharp tang of herbs is the scent of rotting fish.
“Open the windows and all the doors,” I say, moving towards some to my left.
“But the draught,” Olyn says, “Wouldn’t that make it worse?”
“It’s better to bring down temperatures and exchange the air.”
Even with the windows and doors open, the luminarium is stifling. Groans echo off the dome ceiling, mingling with the clatter of bowls and worried whispers of family.
The sharp tang of steeping herbs offers a glimmer of hope, but it doesn’t mask the stench of decay beneath it.
Olyn leads me to the first patient. “I’ve made chicken broth, cooled their heads with river water, bandaged felbei onto their . . .” she hesitates and lowers her voice, “itching skin.”
“Itching?” I kneel at the side of a mother clutching an equally sick child.
“Mother and daughter came yesterday with fevers, and today they woke to darkening, itchy patches of skin.”
Could it be . . . “May I see?” I ask the mother, and she nods feebly. Olyn helps me pull up her sleeves and undo the bandaging. I suck in a quiet breath, heart beating fast. Darkened scales catch the light. They shimmer faintly, their edges shining like wet shell against the fevered skin. The air smells faintly of salt, like something dredged up from the depths of the sea. Not an ordinary illness. Unnatural. I glance at her daughter, who is wide eyed and clutching her mother’s wrist.
I hide a flicker of fear. “It’s alright,” I murmur to her, steeling myself for the fight to fix this. “I can help.”
However. It requires many herbs, and perfect accuracy in stacking them. I still have enough in my system to take care of the mother and child, but if all those who came in have this . . .
My stomach twists, but I push the nausea down. These people need action.
Newcomers shout, carrying in a wheezing, clearly pregnant woman.
Quin takes over the herb grinding table, freeing the volunteer there to set out a mat and cushions for the pregnant patient. I check the vitals of mother and child, and determine them stable enough for me to go to the pregnant woman first.
I read her pulse. It’s quick and thin. She’s panicked for the baby, and her panic is adding to the babe’s distress. I infuse her with a calming spell and check her over. I swallow roughly. Her ankles are rings of fish scales, the smell pungent.
I scan the luminarium, gut tightening at each fevered, desperate face.
We have an outbreak on our hands.
“Hold on a moment,” I say to the pregnant woman’s frightened family, and stride over to Quin on his stool, grinding.
His head snaps up.
I eye his cane. I know this will put him in discomfort, but we’re low on help and I need to prioritise my time. “I need the family of each patient to answer these questions.” I free paper from a stack and write the most pressing questions in a flurry of ink.
Quin reads them over and looks at me.
I lean in, close, so no one else overhears. “We need to find out how it’s spreading.”
“It’s not from person to person?”
“The case I had in the Crucible stemmed from water contamination. But given time, these things can evolve to spread in other ways.”
He pushes himself up with his cane. “I’ll record their answers.”
I begin with those presenting with the worst symptoms. It means I can’t heal the mother and daughter straight away; the little girl’s cries as she scratches her arms prick at my conscience.
I work harder, faster, but I’ve soon exhausted my magic with a dozen still needing spells.
The young daughter scratches at her darkening skin. Scales have not yet formed, but in the next day or two . . .
“You promised you’d help us,” she whimpers.
“She’s just a young girl!” the mother cries. “I don’t care about myself, just help her.”
I wish I could.
All I’m able to offer is some relief from the itching. The mother grits her teeth and curses me.
“Such disrespect!” Quin’s voice startles me; I whirl around to his snip-snapping approach. He glares at my patient and opens his mouth to say more, but I lurch to my feet and tug him away.
“Leave it.”
His eyes are dark and prickly, and he holds himself back with effort.
“We have to be understanding of others’ vulnerability,” I say.
His lips flatten and he nods tightly. “I’ve gathered the information you asked for. Most drank water from Willow Brook. I’ll see what I can do to prevent any more use of that water.”
I send him on his way, and head to Olyn—