Give the Dark My Love(75)

And it was too late anyway. All the houses were illuminated by the flickering orange of our fire—and all of their windows were covered in black cloth. Beyond, I was sure black bunting hid the carmellinas carved on the gates that led to our town. Almost everyone was gone. Anyone left alive now would leave, drift away like petals scattered by a cold wind.

Ernesta cried. Eventually she turned away from me, curling up amid the books in Papa’s wagon after feeding a hungry Jojo some musty oats from the bin.

I stayed. I watched it burn. And even before all of the embers died down, I sifted through the ashy remains of the only home I knew.

There, amid the blackened timbers and soot-stained stones of the hearth, were two red outlines where my parents’ bodies had been, the runes of Death and Life and Love and Hope glittering like rubies and glowing with an ethereal light.

I sifted through the ash, picking up every trace of my parents that remained, the tiny bits of blood iron ore imbued already with an alchemy I should never have attempted.

Ernesta was asleep as the sun rose over our village. No one else was around. I wondered how many dead were in each house, rotting as the survivors fled. I wondered if there were people trapped inside, like Nessie and I had been, waiting in a hollow building with the hollow shells of their now-deceased family members in rooms that stank of rot. Would they come out? Would they be driven mad? Would they hope to leave but feel the black stain of the plague creeping over their bodies?

I paused, turning to check on Ernesta. Her skin was clammy, paler now, the black streaks in her blood like ink beneath her skin.

“I’ll take care of you,” I promised.

Jojo was nervous, her hooves stamping the ground, her nostrils flaring. I clucked at her, and she leapt forward, eager to leave. Ernesta moaned as the cart jostled her. I patted her back once, then turned toward the road.

We had a long way yet to go.



* * *



? ? ?

I stopped the cart twice before we reached Hart. Both times I led Jojo off the main road, hidden behind trees, and I took some of Nessie’s pain for myself. Although I had my parents’ ashes now—enough, I hoped, to make an iron crucible—a small part of me still believed I might not have to use them. A living Ernesta was better than one raised from the dead.

It took all day to get from my parents’ house back to Hart and the main harbor in the north. A crowd gathered near the dock, people jeering and throwing rocks at the large, flat-bottomed ferry. One was already halfway across the bay, and I thought I recognized the driver who had brought me home, taking a boat of dead to the graves. The other boat was painted in black tar, and it would be going to the hospital.

“Get out!” a man in the crowd shouted, hurtling a heavy stone at the boat. “No more sick here! Quit bringing the illness to Hart!”

“We’re going!” the skipper bellowed.

I stood up in my cart. “Wait!” I screamed. “Wait!”

The people nearest me turned, rage in their faces. “She’s sick!” someone shouted, and a rock thudded against the book cart. More damn stones. I could go the rest of my life without seeing another rock.

Ignoring the crowd, I scrambled to the back of the cart, dragging Ernesta up. A few people stood their ground, screaming obscenities at us, but most backed away at Ernesta’s evident illness. Jeers of “Get out!” and “Go!” followed us as we stumbled toward the end of the dock.

The boat was crowded, and people lay or sat as they could. I shoved an old man down the bench and pushed Ernesta into the space he vacated. Before the too-eager skipper could push off from the dock, I leapt into the boat, the angry mob still shouting behind us.

“Is it like this every time?” I gasped as waves beat on the hull.

“Nah,” the skipper said, not looking at me. “Just bad now. Won’t have to worry about it soon. This is the last boat for a while.”

I let those words sink in. Last boat? Was the plague lessening now that it had taken so much from me already? Did that mean Yūgen was reopening?

Ernesta groaned, her body shivering. A pang of remorse shot through me—since the fire, the one thing Ernesta had was the quilt my mother had made for her. In my haste, I’d left it on the book cart. I looked behind us. The people on the dock had already unhitched Jojo, letting her run away. The cart was in flames.

One more piece of home gone.

I clenched my teeth and turned toward the quarantine hospital. I still had Ernesta.

That was enough.





FORTY-SEVEN


    Nedra



Potion makers and aides waited at the stone steps. The skipper hailed them as the boat bumped against the edge. Ernesta groaned.

“They’ll help you,” I whispered in her ear.

I struggled to stand on the rocking boat, Nessie’s limp body and my bag weighing me down. Hands reached out, and someone helped pull Ernesta and me onto the steps.

The aides quickly separated people into groups, sending some immediately onto another boat. I guessed the quarantine hospital was so crowded they had to open another treatment center on the mainland. I kept my head down, following Ernesta as we went up the steps.

I’d been to this hospital dozens of times, but never as a patient, with a patient. Even though I knew the building well, knew where we were being taken and why, I felt scared. In the foyer, we were pulled into a tight circle, and aides dusted us all with cans of berrilias powder to prevent the spread of lice.