"Are you back with us?"
"Bones!" My heart jumped again. A wry chuckle filled the half-darkness, and a lamp hanging from the tent's center pole slowly brightened. I stared at the man sitting on a cot next to mine. Beyond him, three additional cots held blanket-muffled lumps. "Nuada?"
"Ah. You are feeling better, then." Nuada grabbed a pitcher off a small table between the cots, poured a cup half-full, and helped me sit up to drink. And I needed the help; my muscles trembled and shook within the thin, sweat-soaked nightshirt that clung to my chest. The tepid water hit my stomach like a rock and I pushed the cup away after a single sip. Nuada remained silent as I forced my body into submission.
'Strangely so.' With a frown, I followed his gaze to the tent flap, then studied his expression. Dark shadows undercut his eyes and sharp lines traced his frown.
"Nuada?"
After a sharply drawn breath, Nuada focused on me. "Sorry, Guardian. You must be confused."
"A little." I shrugged; I remembered getting fished out of the river and introduced. But somewhere between telling Isamu how I'd met Tyr and Grig and retelling my ignominious tumble into the river, my memories faded out. 'Or you assume you told them that.
'However…'
"What's out there?" I jerked my chin toward the tent flap that had Nuada's full attention again.
"Hmm?" He blinked. "What do you mean?"
I threw my legs over the edge of the cot, testing my reactions with care. My body felt steadier, but unexpected twinges drove home that I wasn't healed.
"Your mind is elsewhere. But you're not. So… What's out there, and why aren't you?" The moment the words were out, I wanted to call them back. 'Who are you, a newbie-fledged Guardian, to challenge…' I frowned. 'Who exactly is Nuada?'
"I'd forgotten Guardians' tendencies toward bluntness." Nuada shook his head and chuckled. "It was one of the things I admired most about Monat."
"You knew Monat?" A flush of excitement energized me. Maybe Nuada could shed some light on why Tyr had been so hostile toward me.
"Knew her?" Nuada jerked back as if I'd slapped him, then scrubbed his hands across his face. "I suppose it is knew. In all this mess, I'd nearly forgotten…"
After a heavy pause, I prompted, "Forgotten?"
"Sorcha said my wife is dead." His face was as flat as his voice, betraying no hint of the turmoil his words had to conceal.
"Sorcha?" I echoed dumbly. "That's… You're… her father?" I felt gutted and guilty beyond reason for reopening an obviously unhealed wound. It was as if he hadn't processed the loss at all. "Wait. When did she tell you? Do you know where she is?"
Nuada stared, lips quirked. "That's almost exactly what you asked two days ago."
"Two—" I shook my head. "That's… No." My voice trembled. 'It couldn't have been two days, because Grig and Tyr would be here if it was that long.' The lumps on the other cots didn't feel like the pair I'd met by the river, and Tyr wouldn't have hesitated to tell me to shut up by now. 'Unless they're in another tent?' I took a deep breath. 'Of course. They have their own tent. Tents.' I shook my head because it didn't matter how many tents they were in.
"That's it. Breathe." Nuada held out the cup again, and I gulped the water. "You fell in the river two days ago. Once we returned to camp, the council put us in quarantine."
"Quarantine?" I set the cup aside. "Drowning isn't contagious." I glanced at the blanket-lumps. Isamu. Marc. Thom. "Nor is rescuing."
Nuada chuckled, but the mirth held a bitter undertone. "We were all in contact with an Infected."
'The badger. The beasts on the river bank. But why would that necessitate quarantine? And if they're keeping you all together…' I rubbed the crease between my eyes.
"You're not from the local Post." Nuada studied my face. "Local Butterflies know that exposure to an Infected can…" He hesitated, and it clicked.
"People can be Infected?" My eyes felt as wide as saucers and I couldn't get enough air.
"Nope. Not again." Nuada shoved my head between my knees. "Breathe!"
I tried, but my throat was tight. 'This is it then. All your hopes for Ismene, finding Sorcha. All grounded by a chance encounter with an animal.'
"Men." A calming warmth flared from my shoulder, thawing the ice I hadn't noticed in my panic.
Raising my head, I followed the hand gripping me to a sleep-puffy face and relaxed further at Isamu's exasperated smile.
"It's not a death sentence," she said with a cadence that hinted she'd repeated it before. "In another day, the Way willing, we'll be out in the sunshine, picking up our lives."
"Sorry." My voice was hoarse, and Nuada provided the cup, refilled and ready. I fidgeted with it and asked, "How many times have you told me that?"
"A few." Isamu brushed it off and squeezed my shoulder. "You've been very sick. Not," she hurried on before I could overreact again, "like you were Infected. But not anything I'm familiar with." She smiled. "Your wrist was an easy fix in comparison."
I blinked and flexed my wrist. It ached like I'd overworked it, but nothing like the agony I'd felt before. "Thank you."
"Thank me by staying whole." Isamu faux-glared at Nuada. "Don't make extra work for me like others who shall remain nameless."
Nuada smiled briefly, drawn from his focus on the tent flap. "You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if we kept out of trouble."
"I'd find something." Isamu straightened and stretched, arms extending above her head. "Take up a hobby, perhaps."
"Maybe Sorcha could show you how to crochet." Meeting their sharp glances, I gestured to the tent flap. "That's why you're so anxious, right? Sorcha's waiting for you and you're stuck here with us."
Nuada scrubbed his face again, and the lines grew deeper.
"Sorcha is in the camp," Isamu said into the silence. "But she hasn't shifted since she arrived—"
"What?" I popped off the cot, blanket flying and arms flailing, forcing Isamu to step clear. "She can't be— That's over—" 'This is what Grig meant. Why he wanted you to come to their camp before…' Forcing the memory away, I wiggled my fingers, trying to count. "It doesn't matter — it's too long."
My knees steadied with each step toward the tent flap. Nuada and Isamu must not have anticipated it, because my fingers brushed the cloth before they yanked me back. The tent's canvas flashed blue and an unfamiliar glyph hovered in midair.
"Don't! It's sealed." Nuada's explanation caught up with me as I gawked. "Force it and it will hurt you. Keep pushing…" He shook his head.
"But we have to get out. Sorcha—" My mouth snapped shut at the pure agony that flooded Nuada's face before it was masked by a pleasant smile.
"We can't," he said. "Another day of quarantine…" He turned to Isamu, and she rubbed her forehead.
"Marc and Thom haven't shown anything worse than a bit of wound fever."
A glint of light reflecting off eyes showed that one of them was awake, but disinclined to join our conversation.
"Neither of us has acted out of character." She gestured between Nuada and herself, then folded her arms with a frown.
"You're all here because of me." I covered my mouth, feeling sick. 'Not just that. Who's not here?' "Tyr. And Grig. They're really gone?"
Nuada and Isamu exchanged glances, then Nuada led me back to the cot.
"You should rest." He pushed me down, and Isamu gathered the discarded blanket.
'Guardians don't rest when Butterflies are in danger.' But I let them settle me on the cot and tuck me in like a featherless child. My hand clenched tight and dull edges bit into my abused palm.
'The story crystal. The wire-wrapped charm. The dream.' I wrapped my hand around the smoky quartz still tucked beneath the borrowed nightshirt. Ignoring Nuada and Isamu's quiet argument over who would stay up next, I fell inward into my crystal, then outward into the charm. I knew what the battered story crystal held. But the charm held…
Whiteness.
Pure.
Blank.
Suffocating.