Will takes the water pail and heads for the stream. I glance at Elliott, but then I follow. I don’t know what to say to Will, but after his long silence last night, I need to say something. To apologize.
He scoops a pail of water from the deepest part of the stream. “Now that we know the Red Death can spread through water, too, I wish it was flowing toward the city, rather than from it,” he says. He doesn’t have to mention the dead bodies that must line the streets by now.
“Because it’s any better when it comes from the swamp?”
Will sighs. “We don’t have any great choices here, do we?”
I could ask him if we’re still talking about water sources, but I don’t really want to know. And I don’t have to anyway.
He sets down the pail and looks at me. “Be careful, Araby.”
I raise my eyebrows and wait for him to continue.
“With Elliott.”
Elliott isn’t the only one with audacity. I won’t have this conversation. Turning back to our campsite, I slip on a wet stone. I don’t fall, but keeping my balance pulls my wounded shoulder, and I gasp.
“I should check that later,” he says.
I stiffen, willing the pain to dull, but I’m glad for the change of subject.
“Thank you for stitching me up,” I say.
“I seem to have a talent for it.”
The comment takes me back to the warmth of his apartment. My skinned knee. The children watching from the doorway as he painstakingly removed the splinter from my hand. Perhaps he should train to be a doctor. Except that profession isn’t safe—in a time of plague, doctors die faster than anyone.
“Why did you let the prisoner go?” I ask.
“I didn’t,” he says. “Thom did.”
Now I do lose my footing, and would fall, if he didn’t lunge forward to steady me. He grabs my elbow and loops an arm around my waist, but he’s behind me so I can’t see his expression. “Thom? Then why didn’t you—”
“Because Elliott would have killed him. Elliott isn’t exactly a friend to those with the disease. He was going to kill the prisoner, and he wanted a reason to kill the boy.”
I’m afraid that he’s right. “But you made yourself look like a traitor.” I almost add “again.”
“I made myself look like a fool. But the boy is alive.”
He did make himself look like a fool. I glance back to the campsite. Surely Elliott is getting suspicious, wondering why it’s taking us so long to get water.
“Thom’s with April and the children. Is it safe? Did he know that the prisoner was the Hunter, that he was a murderer?”
“No. I don’t think so. Thom wouldn’t hurt April or the children. I’m sure of that.”
You can never be sure. He taught me that.
“When I spoke to the Hunter, he seemed tragic, desperate,” Will continues.
“Everyone in the city is desperate,” I say. I’m stepping away from him.
“Have you ever seen Elliott kill someone?” He spins me around, forces me to look at him. “I have. He murdered an unarmed man with one sword stroke, wiped the blade with his handkerchief, and called for servants to get rid of the body. He smiled as he did it.”
“Good thing he didn’t borrow your handkerchief,” I snap. “The one you keep clean in case a pretty girl needs to cry on your shoulder.”
We live in a society where people die every day. I will not allow Will to pull me in with these confidences, not with the fact that he’d risk himself to save a boy’s life. Not with his warnings about Elliott.
I start back to the campfire, giving Will a last glare. He shakes his head slightly but doesn’t seem surprised that I’m walking away.
Elliott has put out the campfire and repacked our supplies. I wait for him to say something, but he’s staring toward the city, lost in his own thoughts. I sling my pack over my shoulder, and the three of us begin to walk.
The woods thin as we near the city.
“So, we’re going to the Debauchery Club?” I ask.
“Yes, but since we have four days, we’re going to search the city for your father first. And for that magical pumping station that could save us from the swamp, and maybe from the Red Death.”
“You think it’s real?”
“Your father seemed to believe so. Do you?”
“I don’t know.” My father never mentioned it, and the references in his journal are unclear.
“Where do you suppose we should start our search for the venerable Dr. Worth?” Elliott asks.
“The last time we saw him was behind the science building at the university,” I say. “He’s comfortable in that area.”
“Then that’s the first place we’ll look,” Elliott says.
Will has been silent all morning, but now he speaks up, peering to the side of the road. “Is that a steam carriage?” Up ahead, a closed-in steam carriage appears to have crashed in the woods.
“Yes.” Elliott pushes ahead of us. “A rather nice one,” he observes. “I might be able to get it working—”
Will and I stop beside him. I’m the first to see the arm, peeking out from under the ornate scrollwork, draped by a lacy shawl.
“Party finery,” I say. “They must’ve been going—”
“To my uncle’s ball.” Elliott readjusts his mask. “But how did they die? The contagion or the Red Death?”
“Red Death,” Will says. “If they were invited to the party, they had masks.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I put my hand on his arm. “Either way, they are contagious. We can’t risk it, Elliott. Standing over an infected body is still dangerous. We need to get out of here.”
Elliott looks at the carriage wistfully. “What a shame. It’s lovely.”
“Beautiful sentiment,” Will scoffs. “I’m sure the owners were very proud of their carriage. Care to step away from it? I’d rather not catch the Red Death.”
As we continue, my bag feels heavier and heavier. Elliott keeps one hand on his sword, as if he can fight off the disease.
The road turns, and the river blocks our path. We have to cross a low bridge to enter the city from this direction. It’s built of white stone; cool to the touch, I learn when I reach out for the railing. The water is about a foot lower than usual. It ripples over knees and elbows and faces with the same cheerful sound it makes when flowing over the smooth stones that line the bank.
I break our prolonged silence to ask, “Do either of you . . . smell something?”
“It’s death,” Elliott says. “Or, more precisely, the city.”
I look away, to the buildings that line the shore: a simple white church that is, astoundingly, unscathed by vandalism; some apartment buildings; a house with a corpse hanging from a balcony. He has a sign pinned to his shirt, and I strain to make out the writing. Did he hang himself, or was he a victim of violence? Did he pin the sign to his shirt before tying the noose and jumping from the balcony, or was it attached to him later?
“Araby?” Elliott breaks my trance. “Come on. We need to find an inn. I’m starving.”
I am too. Despite the death and decay around us, despite the stench of corpses decomposing in the city streets, I am ravenous.
We pass to the other side of the bridge, like so many others who have come and gone in this dying city, and there’s no one to notice. The streets are mostly deserted, but I see faces watching us from behind sheer curtains. Men lounge in doorways.
A man in uniform, a courier perhaps, hurries toward the market. He has a gun but moves nervously.
Red scythes have been painted on the sides of many buildings. One on a warehouse has a staff that is nearly two stories tall. Elliott frowns. A few blocks away, near an inn, is a heap of something white. Bones?
“Masks,” Elliott says when we get closer, prodding them with his foot. A nearly intact one falls over the toe of his boot.
From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a man with a dark robe. Could Malcontent’s men have found us already? He slides something from his pocket, coming straight toward us. I open my mouth to scream, but Elliott shoves me through the door of an inn. I turn back, but Will puts his hand on my shoulder. Elliott is blocking the door, sword in hand.
I push Will away, but before I get any farther, Elliott turns, sheathing his blade. “Coward,” Elliott mutters. “He ran when he saw I was armed.”
I release the breath that I was holding, relieved that we haven’t come to violence in our first few moments back. But Elliott slams his fist down on a wooden table, as angry as I’ve ever seen him.
“Malcontent’s men don’t have to come close enough to fight. They can sidle up to unarmed people and infect them.” His face is red. “I know how to fight a tyrant. I don’t know how to fight a disease.”
I struggle for the right words. My father’s life was spent fighting a disease, but of course, he knew more about it than anyone suspected. Except Prospero.
The inn is crowded, but conversation is muffled. The patrons look tattered, dirty. Will threads his way through and claims a table. We stow our packs underneath.
When the innkeeper comes over, he’s surprised that we want food. “Most people just want to drink,” he says. “To forget.” He gives us the menu for the day, finishing with a dark “It will cost you.”
“That won’t be a problem.” Elliott drops a piece of gold onto the table. The innkeeper picks it up to examine it, and when he sees Elliott’s sign on the coin, his demeanor changes. He hurries to the kitchen and brings back a tray, then hovers over Elliott, answering questions about the availability of food. Supplies are low, but people with money are not starving. Most people do not have money.
“In many areas, the streets are impassable,” the innkeeper adds. “Bodies are everywhere.” I stop eating, but he continues. “No one is sure what happened to the corpse collectors. Some say that the prince stopped paying them.” He looks quickly to Elliott, as if he might have the answer, but Elliott shrugs. “Personally, I think they’re all dead themselves.” He shudders. “Doesn’t matter who they are—if someone can remove the dead from the streets, the city will be theirs.”
“And once the streets have been cleared of the dead, we’ll have a way to bring in food,” Elliott suggests.
“Exactly,” the innkeeper beams.
“Araby, you need to eat,” Will says softly from across the table. His expression reminds me of the way my mother used to watch me. I am free while Mother is a prisoner. I have plenty of food while other people are starving. The guilt makes me feel even less like eating.
“People are ready for some good news,” the innkeeper intones, looking around the common room. So many are drinking though it isn’t even midday yet, and the air is one of gloom, not the boisterous one of freely flowing wine.
“I hope that my return to the city is good news,” Elliott says. “I have plans.” He drops his voice, and Will chooses this moment to scold me once again.