CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MADELEINE SEEMED A LITTLE BETTER the next morning. She’d had a proper sleep, her first since Luc’s death, and she looked herself again. The sore throat was worse, though—that was obvious even before breakfast, as soon as she took her first sip of water. Matthieu couldn’t tell if she really felt better, or if she was just trying harder.
“I don’t feel too bad, really,” she insisted. Matthieu looked pointedly at the remains of her breakfast. She had left everything that wasn’t either liquid or mushy. “Apart from my throat, I mean,” Madeleine said. “It’s really sore. But I’m not horribly feverish or achy. I don’t think it’s anything very serious.”
By lunchtime, Matthieu wasn’t so sure. Madeleine was back in bed, headachy and weak. She didn’t even try to eat.
It was time to start hollering.
YOLENKA HAD LEFT Gabrielle and Derkh to their work, leaving Féolan as halting translator, to investigate the guardhouse by the gate.
“I wish I could get in there,” Dominic had said that morning. “How many guards are on duty at a time? What kind of alarm do they have?”
Yolenka had grinned, and slowly, teasingly, pulled an intricately carved little box from some hidden pocket in her skirts. It rattled as she shook it.
“What is that?” Dominic spoke for them all.
“Is reneñas.” The grin became broader. “I have not met a soldier who can resist a game...or who can win over me.”
So in the sleepy heat of midafternoon, when Gabrielle’s trickle of patients had dried up to nothing and Derkh had pulled out his jeweler’s tools to begin roughing out Turga’s order, Yolenka ambled off to play reneñas with the guards.
With no patients, without Yolenka to give them the illusion of purpose, the futility of their charade crept over Gabrielle like some waking version of the gray fog of her dream. It was pointless, this busy hammering and dancing and doling out of tonics. Urgency drummed within her, goading her to hurry—if only she knew where.
Someone was hurrying. She looked up as footsteps rapped across the baked clay of the courtyard and was surprised to see Turga himself striding toward them. He did not look happy.
“Derkh. Get Yolenka. Hurry!” Féolan could speak enough Tarzine to stumble through a simple pick-up or payment, but not this. Whatever “this” was.
Turga’s tawny skin flushed dark with annoyance as Féolan tried to explain Yolenka’s absence. Finally she came hurrying from the gatehouse and took her place at Gabrielle’s side. Turga fired out a question.
Yolenka faltered. Turga snapped his fingers at her, impatient with the delay. Slowly, she turned to Gabrielle.
“He ask...he ask if you are afraid to treat the Gray Veil.”
“The Gray Veil? What is that?” Whatever was rampaging through Baskir, was her first guess.
Yolenka swallowed, her eyes worried. “Is very bad sickness, makes sick person strangle in the throat. It spreads fast, can kill anybody but”—and her voice went very quiet now—”always more children die.”
FÉOLAN WATCHED GABRIELLE’S color drain to ashy gray, longed to jump up and comfort her and steeled himself not to. He remembered her dream, her constant anxiety in recent days about the children, and knew her fear. She’ll give us away to Turga, he worried, and then saw in the man’s grim dismissal that he interpreted her reaction as fear of the disease itself. Looks like he expected as much, Féolan thought. He gathered his strength and sent it out to Gabrielle.
She was already pulling herself together. He saw it in the straightening of her back. Felt it as his mind touched hers.
“Ask him who is sick, Yolenka. Ask like you are curious, not worried.”
The reply confirmed their fears. Yolenka could not keep the emotion from her voice as she passed on Turga’s words.
“Is girl. He say she is just slave, but worth good price.” She hesitated, glancing at Dominic, but he gestured at her to go on. His face was wooden with the effort to hide his feelings.
“He say he does not want lose his profit.”
GABRIELLE FOLLOWED ZHIRAK up the narrow stone stairway, wondering how on earth she would stop the children from giving her away. Turga’s instructions—to stand in the doorway as far from “the girl” as possible and attempt to diagnose her illness from there—worried her too. It went against her instincts to keep a distance from any patient—let alone her own niece.
The landing was close now, and no telling how nearby the children were kept. Could she call out to them? She had not yet encountered anyone who spoke Krylaise, but still, her actions might seem suspicious.
A tune popped into her head—a little children’s nonsense song that she had sung to the kids when they were little. Was bursting into song on the way to diagnose a terrifying disease any less suspicious than shouting out a warning? Maybe not—but she was running out of time. She took a breath and began to sing, first under her breath as if to herself and then loudly, as the words fell into place:
“Madeleine, just keep silent
Matthieu, please be quiet
Pretend you don’t know me
And safe you will be.
“Madeleine, just keep silent
Matthieu, please be quiet
Pretend you don’t know me
And safe you will be.”
They met a guard at the top of the stairs, who pulled out a ring of keys, led her to the third door and opened it. He stood back, unwilling it seemed to enter the room himself.
Gabrielle took a deep steadying breath and stepped inside.
Matthieu sat on a cot, his shorn head in his hands. His body was rigid with effort as he stared at the floor. She heard him sniff, understood he was fighting tears as well as the need to fling himself against her. Her own tears, pity and anger and relief combined, welled hot in her eyes, and she was glad the guard could not see.
“Hi,” she said softly, striving for the neutral, calming tone she used so often in her work as a healer. “Don’t say anything yet. Don’t even look until you feel ready.” The room was dim and too warm, but Matthieu seemed all right. Madeleine, she saw, lay on a cot on the far side of the room, apparently asleep.
“My dad—” The words came out in a rush of breath.
“He’s here,” said Gabrielle. The narrow shoulders straightened, and she felt Matthieu’s wave of exultation, but he kept his face down. She pitched her voice lower. “We are going to get you home, but you have to be patient. We’re still figuring things out. Right now, they sent me to look at your sister. How is she?”
Now, slowly, Matthieu lowered his hands and turned toward her. His brown eyes, shining with tears and hope and worry, squeezed at her heart. She wanted nothing more than to rush over and gather him into her arms—but she couldn’t.
“Matthieu, I’m not allowed to come in—not yet. I have to report back to Turga, and then I hope he’ll send me to heal Madeleine. But I need to try to figure out what’s wrong with her.”
Matthieu nodded. His eyes darted to a third cot, an empty one, and away. There was a rusty patch on the floor nearby. Gabrielle had seen stains like that before. What had happened here?
“At first I thought she was just sad,” Matthieu said. “We had—” He swallowed, tried again. “There was another boy here. He was killed and...” Matthieu was crying openly now, and Gabrielle found herself on the cot beside him, holding him tight, Turga’s rule forgotten. She would do no less for any strange child.
A heavy tread, a startled exclamation. They both looked up to see the guard’s head in the doorway. His barked command and gesture were plain enough. Gabrielle settled for one last squeeze and reluctantly returned to her station in the doorway.
Slowly, Matthieu found his voice. “Maddy wouldn’t eat or talk or do anything for a couple of days, she was so upset. But then yesterday, I got her to sit up and eat. That’s when I realized she was sick too.”
“How does she feel, Matthieu?”
“Mostly she has a really sore throat. A bit of fever and headache too, I think, but not too bad. She doesn’t seem all that sick, but she’s been sleeping most of the day.” He looked up at Gabrielle. “Her voice sounds funny.”
“Funny how?” Gabrielle kept her tone level, but Matthieu’s words had given her a chill. Yolenka had had only a moment to describe the progression of the Gray Veil to her, but Madeleine’s symptoms fit. On the other hand, they fit any number of common childhood illnesses. She clung to that thought.
“I dunno. Kind of like she’s talking through her nose. It just sounds different from normal.”
“Okay, that’s a good observation.” Gabrielle smiled at Matthieu. “You’d make a good bonemender.”
That won a smile, though fleeting. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.
Gabrielle considered. “I don’t think I’m going to wake her up. If I can’t examine her, I doubt I can learn much more from her than you just told me, and it will be hard for her to pretend like you did.”
Matthieu nodded. “Can I tell her when she wakes up?”
“You’d better!” Gabrielle smiled again. “And I think I will be back soon. Right now I’m just going to see if I can sense anything more.”
Gabrielle closed her eyes, let the world fade away and stretched out her mind to the sleeping girl. Madeleine’s sleep was uneasy— Gabrielle could feel her discomfort, the occasional flares of pain that must come from her throat. She did not get the feeling of desperate illness—Matthieu was right in that. But there was something else, wasn’t there? Like a fungus growing secretly in the dark, some vague sense of looming threat.
Gabrielle didn’t know if Madeleine had caught the Gray Veil. But her niece was in danger.
That Gabrielle knew beyond doubt.