All she knew, Leena thought groggily as she laid her head down upon the drenched pillow once more, still gripping the botany book in her hand, was that the phantoms that existed in her mind were far worse than the ones that haunted her just beyond the salt circle.
On the thirdday of her illness, Leena cursed St. Silas to every imaginable hell.
He’d lied. He’d given them the wrong medication. It was not working. They were dying.
On the fourth day, Leena’s fever broke completely. The rash that was spreading across her body changed to a faint pink color and the first signs of hunger began to assault her. She stood without fainting. And she cursed St. Silas once more, for now she was certain he’d fulfilled his end of the bargain.
Leena took no joy in her own recovery, however, when Rami’s was much slower. He stayed in bed, asleep most of the time, although his temperature had finally broken as well and color had returned to his cheeks.
It was on this day that Leena made her first venture to the Old Market.
Leena had never once stopped to consider the varying smells of the bazaar, but the odor of frying fish mixed with the pungent smell of human flesh pressed close together was like a fist to her stomach.
Leena had seen the market grow ostentatiously since its foundation nearly twenty years ago by the first Algaraan immigrants; now it was even frequented by the most reluctant of Mors. She remembered that when she was a child, the market had consisted of only a few tents and wares placed on dusty sheets on the ground. Now it snaked along the coast, starting at the harbor and moving inward, with multicolored tents, caravans, shop fronts, and people of varying wealth and class thronging together. Over the years, Leena had seen every form of merchandise being traded and haggled over—herbs and medicines that were said to be able to bring about children, handmade clothes with intricate stitching that would far outlast any factory garment made in Morland, and even imported artifacts from across the world that held prestige and grandeur.
The crowd today was far thinner than usual, most people barricading themselves at home until the current wave of Sweeper’s Cough had settled. Of those who were out, most wore scarves on their nose and mouth to ward off the infection. Leena had also covered half her face to avoid spreading the contagion further.
She was not surprised to find a growing line by the medicinal tents. Leena herself had stood there not long ago, spending precious coins onMr. Martin’s Medical Cure for Contagious Diseases and Sweeper’s Cough.Yet, in spite of its popularity, it had not worked for Rami, forcing her to seek the Saint of Silence instead.
Leena weaved through the familiar caravans, dodging both the overzealous shopkeepers waving her in and the insistent ghosts that always trawled the market calling for her attention. She kept a steady pace, avoiding eye contact with mostly anything that moved.
Yet she could not avoid the pamphlet that was forcefully shoved into her hands.
Since the rapid boom of the printing press, flyers had become commonplace in Leena’s life. Every other day was an advertisement for the unreal and fantastical. It was the same ruddy-faced man she’d seen all the times before, who often stood at the corner between the tents that sold rugs and the chai stall.
Leena glanced at the paper, taking a moment to decipher the smudged black ink.
The Saint of Hunger Spotted on Mount Syke!
Expedition to Explore Such Sightingto Take Place on the Morrow.
Join Us at Daybreak at Ankler’s Inn.
“The demons are stirring again,” the man whispered to her, his eyes wide and twitching in his face. “And the Saints have returned to banish them back to their hellish world.”
Leena thanked him with a polite nod while pocketing the pamphlet carefully, wanting to preserve the paper as intact as possible. Later on, she could write in the margins rather than spend a precious farthing to purchase new paper to practice her translations.
Her thoughts shifted when she passed a girl no older than her, with short blond hair hidden by an overworn bonnet and a scarf over her nose, handing out flyers. She wore a red twine of rope pinned to her lapel—a sign of the Morish rebels.
This pamphlet Leena did not take, for she had already kept one concealed at home, reading it at night when the candle was at its dimmest. She had the words memorized by now:
King Edmund is powerless.
The country is ruled by the aristos sitting in Parliament who do not represent our interests, but only seek to advance theirs.
More than ever: The poor are poorer, and the rich are richer.
Look across the sea: The Algaraans have paved our way.
The Algaraan Malik will fall.
So will our King.
So will our Parliament.
Take arms. Struggle. Resist.
Keep a lookout.
