Virgil’s boots creak behind me. “Still smells like lye,” he says. “You always did like things scrubbed raw.”
I ignore him, turning toward the east corridor. The door to the sickroom waits at the end, light leaking through the keyhole.
“Best keep your distance when I open it,” I say, loud enough for my voice to carry. “He coughs when the air shifts.”
Virgil makes a sound, amusement perhaps. Let’s see how amused he is inside. I reach the door, hesitating. My blood pumps so hard I can feel my heartbeat against the doorknob.
Inside, silence. Then, the faintest movement, the creak of a chair, the whisper of cloth.
Kodiak is ready.
I knock lightly. “Mr. Collier,” I call, as the door squeals open. “Virgil’s come about the deed.”
A rough cough answers, convincing. “Not now, Alice.” His voice is thick, unrecognizable.
Virgil’s expression shifts, a flicker of discomfort. “I need his mark. Nothing else will do.”
“Then keep back,” I say and push the door open.
The curtains are drawn, only the fire lends shape to the room. Kodiak lies half-turned from us, face lost in shadow.
Virgil steps inside, the smell of carbolic and damp wool strong enough to sting the nostrils. “Collier, you look worse than I expected,” he says, tone half teasing.
Kodiak shifts but does not rise. “You’d look the same, Sherman, a fever to your bones.”
Virgil chuckles, uneasy. “We just need your mark, friend. Then you can go back to dying at leisure.” He steps closer.
I move to intercept him, setting a hand on his arm. “Please. The doctor says exertion worsens the fever.”
He looks down at my hand, then back to the bed. “I’ll be careful,” he hisses.
Kodiak turns slightly, enough for the firelight to catch the line of his jaw.
“Paper,” he says. “Bring it here.”
Virgil hesitates. For the first time, I see doubt in him—something calculating, something wary.
Downstairs, a board creaks, the notary shifting perhaps.
Virgil hands me the papers. “Very well. Have him sign.”
I cross to the table, dipping the pen. Behind me, Kodiak coughs again, the sound raw enough to make Virgil flinch.
“Hold still,” I whisper, and pass the pen into Kodiak’s waiting hand.
He scrawls the name in a single deliberate stroke, the ink soaking into the page like blood.
When I turn back, Virgil is studying the shape beneath the blanket, his mouth drawn tight, lingering by the foot of the bed. The fire pops and a thin coil of smoke slides toward the ceiling.
“He’s drifting. The fever takes him under for hours.”
Virgil smiles without warmth. “I should like a closer look.” He takes another step.
My breath catches. I can see the muscles in Kodiak’s forearm tense beneath the blanket, his hand closing over the pistol always holstered beside him.
“Please,” I say quickly. “He’s contagious.”
Virgil hesitates, amusement flickering again. “You truly think I fright so easily?” He reaches for the edge of the quilt.
