Page 44 of The King's Man 3

I grin. “I wanted to beat you today. Turns out I reallydid.”

Quin barks another laugh and follows it with a hand on my chest that holds me down. His white hair sweeps around my head, shadowing his face, intensifying the darkness of his eyes.

Something like fright shoots through me.

“The floor, Cael.”

Yes.

I grab the blankets and deposit them quickly.

After a restless sleep and then consuming more than twenty types of herbs, I row through dawn with Quin. At the bend before the fields we robbed, the bark of military orders has us steering our boat under the cover of willow.

“It was an accident. There... there were angry spirits—”

“Enough. We have more pressing matters. Pack, get to the gates.”

I glance at Quin. More pressing matters?

Quin shakes his head, equally unsure.

We wait until we glimpse red moving towards the road, and row on. In any case, if the redcloaks think they know where Quin is, they’re headed in the wrong direction.

Olyn greets us at the luminarium door wearing a kerchief around her mouth and nose. “Thank Heavens. Something’s not right. We had another twenty come in with high fever this morning.”

She hands us kerchiefs and I hurriedly put mine on and glance at Quin. High fever is a sign of contagious disease. Nothing the king should be near. “Stay out here.”

Quin’s cane snaps and he presses the square of silky fabric into my hand. “Put it on me.”

“But this is—”

He stops me with a look.

I squeeze the fabric and slowly nod. My fingers still on the knot for a tight breath. I wish had the ribbon with me. That I could tie it into his hair to keep him safe from others this time.

My slowly released breath fans the back of his hair and at his small twitch, I step away quickly. “Done,” I murmur, and we follow Olyn inside.

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.”

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