Give the Dark My Love(67)

I looked at my mother and sister. “We have to get you out,” I said. “I’ve been around this sickness before, I’ll be fine, but you could catch it—” I knew I wasn’t immune just because I’d been lucky before, but I was desperate to ensure my family’s safety.

Mama was already shaking her head. “It’s for the best. We can’t risk spreading the plague to the rest of the village.”

I thought about the Longshires. I could still hear the empty, hollow knocks on their door when no one answered.

“I have friends. We’ll take Jojo and the wagon and go into the city. The hospital will help us.”

Mama shut her eyes. “Your father wouldn’t survive the trip.”

“You two, then,” I insisted.

“You can barely stand,” Ernesta said. She held my arm, supporting me. The aftereffects of taking Papa’s pain still burned in my blood.

“There has to be something . . .” I muttered as she led me to our room.

My crucible still lay in the center of the bed. I clutched it to me, and Ernesta pulled the quilt over my shoulders. I fell asleep again, exhaustion overwhelming my body.



* * *



? ? ?

“Nedra.”

My eyes creaked open, crusty and dry. My mouth was dry, too. My throat. It felt like I’d walked through a fire.

“Nedra.”

I sat up in bed. “Nessie?”

Ernesta grabbed my hand. “Are you okay?” she asked.

I could smell bread baking. “Yes,” I said.

“You’ve slept for hours.”

I stood up straighter and realized that my body felt like my own again. “I’ve never tried to take away someone’s pain without a creature to funnel it into.”

Ernesta’s face was sunken, her eyes red-rimmed and dark.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Papa.”

She didn’t have to say anything else.

He was gone.

I took his pain, but he died anyway.

“Come on,” Ernesta said, and it wasn’t until she spoke that I realized I had sort of sunk into myself, my body collapsing to mimic the way my soul felt.

I turned to the sheet on my bed. I grabbed a pair of scissors and cut the cloth quickly, fashioning masks for myself, Ernesta, and Mama.

“First things first,” I said, showing Ernesta how to put the mask on, then tying one for myself. I didn’t meet her eyes when I added, “For the smell.”

“I’ll take this to Mama,” Ernesta said, picking up the third cloth. “She put some bread in the oven before going to take a nap. It’s probably done now.”

I suddenly realized I was starving. I headed to the kitchen, opening the oven door and pulling out the loaf of crusty bread baking in the center. I rapped my knuckles on the top of the loaf, listening for the hollow sound inside to tell me it was done.

No one baked bread like Mama. It was perfect. I sank my teeth into the first steaming slice, and for just one moment, I let myself believe the lie that being home meant being safe.

Ernesta entered the kitchen and sat down at the table. The cloth mask for Mama was still in her hands. She didn’t meet my eyes. Tears fell from her cheeks and plopped onto the cloth.

“No,” I whispered, my head shaking, my body shaking.

I dropped the slice of bread onto the floor and ran to the front room.

She was sleeping. She was just sleeping.

“Mama,” I said.

Just sleeping.

I dropped to my knees beside the couch, feeling her wrist for a pulse. There wasn’t one. I leaned over her body, reaching for her neck, and Mama’s loose shirt fell open a little. And I saw the shadow. I ripped the cloth more, exposing her chest. A black stain swirled over her heart, creeping through her veins up and down her torso. How long had she been infected? Since Papa? When she kneaded the bread, when she sprinkled salt across the top of the loaf? Was she dying as she baked for her daughters? Did she know?

I gagged, still tasting the warm, buttery goodness. My stomach heaved in protest, and I choked down the vomit burning up my throat.

I stumbled up. I had to get out. Get away. I couldn’t stand it. The fire, still blazing, stifling, making it hard to breathe. Mama, there on the couch. I couldn’t be here. I couldn’t be in this house. This wasn’t my home. My home couldn’t exist without them. It wasn’t right. Everything was wrong, bad, off. I had to get out. My heart was thudding, pounding. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t feel my feet, my hands. Maybe the plague was in me, too, blackness creeping through my blood, sucking away my life. I kicked my shoes off and stared at my toes, then looked down at my fingertips. Nothing but the shadows from the fire.

But my heart wouldn’t stop racing.

We had to get out of here. As far away as possible.

I stumbled to the door, ripping it open. Something hit me in the shoulder, knocking me back. I didn’t stop. Another rock, hitting me in the head. I kept moving. Blood leaked down my face. I touched it. Red. Not black. Red.

Dimly, I was aware of the gathering crowd of children holding stones. Of Ernesta, calling for me to return.

A shot rang through the air, the sound cutting through my panicked thoughts, ricocheting through my ears, silencing the chaotic pulsing in my brain.

I stopped.