34. TALIESIN
The air in Clay and Imran’s cell smells of blood, old sweat, and the cloying sweetness of death.
But Imran is shivering so hard his bones are rattling against the cot frame, huddled under a thin rag of a blanket Dot must have swiped from the Guild laundry.
He’s been out of it for hours, but now the haze in his eyes has cleared. He’s lucid, and that scares the hell out of me. I’ve seen this before.
The final rally.
“I dreamed of the sea.” Imran’s voice is a ghost of a sound, a dry rasp that barely carries over the hum of the block. “The water was blue, the sky was blue. You couldn’t tell where one started and the other ended.”
“That sounds beautiful, Immy,” Rory soothes. She’s using a damp corner of her sleeve to dab the sweat from his forehead. I know she’s exhausted. It’s been two days of this, none of us have had more than an hour or two of sleep. I’d finally sent Sky off to rest, the kid was making herself ill.
I reach over and give Imran’s arm a soft squeeze. “Keep thinking about that blue. It’s the best color. It’s the color of everything wonderful.”
The sea, the sky, Aurora’s eyes.
Dot hovers in the doorway. Clay and Layla are already at work, because fuck, the show must go on. “Uh, I’ve gotta go, but, like…fuck.” She curses then takes something out of her pocket. Striding over, she holds something in her hand, obviously deliberating whether to set it down or not.
“Is that… a stuffie?” I ask, staring at the matted gray felt.
She stares me down, her jaw working and looking ready to swing at me, but then she sighs, a deflating sound that makes her shoulders slump, she places the lint bundle on the bed.
It’s a tiny, felted mouse, whiskers made of stray blue thread from a Guild jumpsuit. It’s delicate. It’s beautiful.
“It’s stupid,” Dot grunts. “Whatever. Repetitive motion keeps the head quiet, alright? But you tell anyone the Digger laundry-boss plays with dolls, and I’ll put you in a dryer on high heat.”
I nod, keeping a straight face, then she stomps out.
“Needle felting?” Rory whispers. “That’s the big secret?”
We share a smirk. It brings so much-needed lightness to the room.
Imran smiles too. It’s a tiny, fleeting thing. Rory places the toy into his clawed hand. “We’re a funny family, aren’t we?” he mumbles.
“All the best families are weird,” I tell him. “Normal is overrated.”
“You want to try some more soup?” Rory has a spoon poised.
After a moment he nods. “Please, I’m hungry now.”
Yeah, it’s got to be the fucking rally.
The afternoon goes on and his energy wanes again. I’m getting up to stretch when François suddenly appears. He doesn’t say anything, and he’s holding a bundle of dark, heavy fabric under one arm.
“Yeah? What?” I bark in his direction.
His eyes are fixed on Rory, looking at the shadows under her eyes, for the toll the last forty-eight hours have taken. Then he shakes out the bundle.
It’s a heavy, navy-blue wool peacoat—the kind issued only to Guild members for the winter months. It’s worn and shabby but warmer than anything else in this block. “I believe a fever brings chills,” he says.
And that’s not all he delivers. Reaching into his pockets, he pulls out a handful of sugar packets. “So the boy can taste something other than…” he doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.
Blood pools at the corner of Imran’s mouth, and dribbles down his pale skin.
I stare at the coat, the sugar. Those things would have come at a cost.
“Why?” I ask.
