I have a headache today. I must admit, it makes me uncomfortable to think it might be the start of something worse. No wonder people panic. “Is it safe to go inside?”
“It is. Just…don’t drink the water. The well isn’t very clean.”
I stare at him, surprised again that he can tell that just by being in the general area. He’s a god, true, but I forget because a lot of the time he just acts like a normal man—an apathetic and haughty one. Even now, he’s holding my hand, our palms clasped like we’re a young couple instead of a god and his mortal Anchor. “Not drinking from the well, I promise.”
“Good.”
“You could fix it, you know,” I point out. “The well?”
“Sunshine, if I used my limited magic protecting all these mortals from themselves, you’d be a shriveled husk.” He eyes me. “And I like you far more than them, so no.”
I shouldn’t be flattered, but I am.
We head into the town itself. It’s not much more than a couple dozen houses scattered loosely along the dirt road. There are a few domesticated animals in small pens, a cat that runs away when we approach, and absolutely no one out and about. My skin prickles with discomfort. “Where is everyone?”
“Staying inside, I imagine.” Kalos lets go of my hand to point at the nearest door. It’s marked with another vulture symbol, this one in a faded white paint instead of the lurid red. “Want to turn around and leave?”
“Not before I find the spinner.”
I march through the town, looking at all the houses. They’re small and poor compared to what I’m used to — there are no glass windows, just wooden casements drawn tightly closed. Every roof is thatched, every path a muddy trail, and the entire community seems poor. Not all doors have the vulture symbol drawn on them, though, so I indicate that Kalos should remain in the street while I approach the nearest house.
Knocking on the door gets no answer. I try twice before I give up and head over to the next house and knock again. I try three more doors before someone opens up a crack and glares out at me, their face hidden behind a scarf over the mouth and nose. “Go away! There’s sickness here!”
“I’m looking for the spinner,” I say, smiling brightly. “Then I swear I’ll leave.”
“Spinner’s sick, too,” the person tells me, but points a finger at a house nearest to the well at the edge of town.
As I turn to leave, I’m peppered by dirt from behind. I turn and the next handful hits my face. Sputtering, I wipe the grains away. Not dirt—they’re throwing salt on me.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the villager says again. “You’ll catch what we have.”
I don’t know if telling them Kalos is with me will scare them more than they already are, so I opt to say nothing about him at all. “I promise I won’t. Thank you again.”
Wiping the sticky grit of salt from my face, I move to the house that’s been designated as the spinner’s. There’s a little garden to one side of the small house, choked in weeds. Anenormous pig wallows in mud in a small pen, and there’s no smoke coming from the chimney of the house. The vulture symbol here is faded and old, but still on the door, and I wonder how long this poor woman has been sick.
I knock, and of course no one answers. I hesitate for a moment, because it seems rude to barge into a stranger’s house, but what if she’s on death’s door? What if she’s too sick to get up? I touch the weathered wooden door and look over at Kalos, waving him to my side.
He saunters over without a lick of haste. “Ready to go?”
“What’s she sick with?” I ask, indicating the door. “The spinner? Can you tell?”
Kalos makes a face at me. He leans against the wall of the hut, a wood-and-mortar job that looks like it’s seen better days, then crosses his arms and regards me. “Well, she’s full of sickness from the well itself. All kinds of impure things are in the water. But today? She’s got the shits because of something she ate. Satisfied?”
“No plague?” I double-check, just to be sure.
“Zero plague, just poor choices.”
Poor choices, huh? It makes me wonder if it’s really her choice or if it’s something out of her control. Maybe she’s unaware the well water is bad? I knock again, and when there’s no answer, I push the door open gently. “Hello?”
There’s a strange, sour smell that wafts out of the house the moment the door is cracked, and I step back, fanning the air.
“Don’t come in,” says a weak, wobbly voice from somewhere in the dark recesses of the small house. “I’ve got the plague.”
“Omos sent me,” I say, as if that explains everything, and go inside anyhow. I leave the door wide open for light and look around. The house is tiny inside, with a clutter of objectspushed into every corner—a spinning wheel, a heavy cauldron for cooking, a clothing trunk, a rocking chair, and in the corner, near the dark fireplace, is a bed with a blanket-covered figure in it. There are a few buckets and bowls lined up at the edge of the bed for puking, and the sour smell is even worse in here. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
“Plague,” she says again, struggling to sit up.
“It’s not the plague, ma’am,” I say as polite as I can. “Like I said, Omos sent me. Would you like a drink of water?”
