C H A P T E R T W E N T Y- F O U R
The night that followed was one of the worst Kiva had ever experienced.
After Jaren sprinted back into the infirmary with Tipp in his arms, Kiva helped lay him on the bed opposite Tilda, ignoring all quarantine procedures in favor of keeping him within reach at all times. His fever was off the charts, with him clutching his stomach and moaning, but otherwise unable to communicate anything to Kiva about what he was feeling.
She forced remedy after remedy down his throat, half of which he vomited up, so in an act of desperation, she cut open his forearm and shoved a small, hollowed tube into his vein, funneling medicine directly into his bloodstream. She’d attempted it with some of the other ill patients without success, but this was Tipp. He had to
survive. He had to.
Three hours passed.
Six hours.
Twelve.
Jaren and Naari stayed with Kiva, fetching her fresh water and clean linens, preparing medicines, removing buckets of sick. When the time came for Jaren to begin working in the tunnels, he didn’t leave, and Naari didn’t make him. The three of them remained with Tipp, watching the young boy, waiting for any sign of improvement— or deterioration.
Kiva couldn’t stop berating herself for leaving the boy so alone, distracted as she’d been by her research and the Ordeals. If only he’d gone with her to collect her samples yesterday, then maybe . . .
It was useless, she knew. She had no idea what had made him sick, just as she had no idea what was making anyone sick. She called herself a healer, but what did she really know? She’d never had any official training, nor had she apprenticed under a master or studied at an academy. All she knew was what her father had taught
her in the short time they’d had together, and with such limited resources. Nothing had prepared her for an illness of this magnitude, for how many people were dying without any known cause . . . for the possibility of losing another person she loved.
Her father had already succumbed to this sickness. She couldn’t stand the thought that Tipp might soon follow in his footsteps.
“K-Kiva?”
Kiva’s head shot upward. Confusion fogged her mind before adrenaline cleared it, making her realize that she’d dozed off with her cheek on Tipp’s bed, her sleepless night and the long hours of the previous day having caught up to her.
“Tipp,” she gasped, reaching for his hands. They were ice-cold, but also clammy with sweat. She frowned at the sensation, since none of the other sick patients had exhibited a similar symptom, but she cast it from her mind and focused on the young boy staring at
her with tears in his scared blue eyes.
“Am I g-g-going to die?”
“Of course not,” Kiva told him sternly, as if the idea was preposterous, even if every part of her was shriveling on the inside.
Two sets of footsteps approached from behind her, belonging to Jaren and Naari. Strong hands came to rest on her shoulders, and a whiff of honey, ginger, and mint touched her nose—ingredients she’d asked Jaren to mix into a healing tea in the hope that Tipp might be able to drink some.
“Hey, buddy, looking good,” Jaren said from over Kiva’s shoulder.
“J-Jaren,” Tipp said, his pale lips stretching into a smile. It made him look even more sickly, like the effort cost him dearly. “You’re here.”
“Where else would I be?” Jaren said, letting go of Kiva to crouch beside the bed. “This is where all the fun is.”
Tipp laughed, a low, almost painful sound. Kiva wasn’t sure if she wanted Jaren to shut up and go away so the young boy could rest or if it was more important for him to lift Tipp’s spirits and give him a fighting chance.
“And N-Naari, too,” Tipp said, looking over Kiva’s shoulder to where the guard stood.
“I wouldn’t try talking to her,” Jaren warned conspiratorially. “She skipped breakfast, so you know what that means.”
Tipp’s smile widened, a hint of light touching his cloudy eyes.
“Hungry?”
Jaren nodded solemnly. “And angry. She’s worse than a wooka after hibernation.”
Naari made a grumbling noise from behind Kiva, but Tipp laughed again, this time not sounding so painful. Kiva had to bite her cheek to keep in her tears, the sight of him so animated, so alive, while also looking so small in the infirmary bed was almost too much for her to bear.
“What do you think about some tea?” Kiva asked, her voice wobbling only a little. “Jaren made it, so there’s a good chance it’ll
make you feel worse—”
“Hey!”
“—but it should help soothe your tummy a bit,” Kiva continued over Jaren’s protest. “Sound good?”
Tipp curled in on himself, as if daunted by the idea of trying to ingest anything after having brought so much up in such a short period of time. And yet, he still said, “I c-can try.”
Kiva heard the distress in his voice, even if he tried to hide it. She wanted to tell him they could try later, but he desperately needed some fluids. Dehydration would only make him feel worse.
“Just a little,” Kiva said, as Jaren rose from his crouch and went to collect the brew. “A few sips.”
But Tipp wasn’t able to manage a few sips. He was gagging after the first one, tears streaming down his cheeks as he apologized over and over.
“Shhh, it’s all right,” Kiva told him, sitting on the bed beside him and running her hands through his sweaty hair.
“I’m s-s-sorry!” he cried. “I t-tried!” He looked at her through watery eyes filled with fear as he sobbed, “I don’t want t-t-to die!”
Kiva swallowed back her own sob, her heart aching. She kept her face void of all that she was feeling, hiding her dread and panic, and broke all her rules by lying down and pulling him into her arms. His small, feverish body burrowed into hers, clutching tightly, like she was his only lifeline left in the world.
“I’m here,” Kiva whispered as he trembled against her, his tears and sweat soaking into her tunic. “I’m here, Tipp.”
She kept repeating herself, reminding him that she was there, that she wouldn’t leave him, until he finally cried himself into an exhausted sleep. Even then, Kiva didn’t let him go, holding him close, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the steadiness of his breathing, the life that remained within him, for however long he had
left.
“Kiva?”
She looked away from the boy in her arms and up at Jaren, his tender concern prompting tears to pool in her eyes. She tore her gaze away, carefully extricating herself from Tipp’s hold and tucking the blankets around him, just as Jaren had done for her eleven days earlier.
“I just— Can you— I need—” Kiva couldn’t finish a sentence, her throat painfully tight as she tried to keep her tears from overflowing.
Unable to look at Jaren again and the compassion she knew she’d see on his face, she turned to Naari and said, “We need more gingerweed.”
When the guard made a move toward the door, Kiva threw out her hand. “No, I’ll get it. Can you— Can you just watch him for a minute?
Both of you? I’ll be— I’ll be right back.”
And without waiting for them to agree, Kiva took off across the infirmary and out the door into the medicinal garden.
“Kiva!” Jaren called after her. “Kiva, wait!”
She didn’t wait, not even when she heard him following. She kept going, rounding the bend until she reached the thistlewort, the place where they’d found Tipp the previous night, now bathed in soft,
morning sunlight.
“Kiva, stop.”
A hand on her shoulder. That was all it took for her to crumble.
Jaren caught her before her knees could hit the dirt, turning her in his arms and pulling her close as the tears she’d been trying so hard to keep in began to stream like rivers down her face.
“I can’t lose him!” she cried into his chest.
Jaren held her tighter, rubbing her back soothingly. “Shhh. I’ve got you.”
Tear after tear fell from Kiva, all her fear and sorrow flooding out of her, until finally her sobbing eased, giving way to exhaustion.
In a rasping whisper of a voice, her words full of anguish, Kiva repeated, “I can’t lose him, Jaren.”
“I know,” he whispered back, still holding her close, his arms curled tightly around her.
She pulled away just enough to look up at him, meeting his concerned blue-gold gaze.
“You don’t know,” she said hoarsely. “I can’t lose him.”
Jaren reached for her face, gently wiping away her tears.
“Sweetheart, I know.”
“He’s like a brother to me,” she said, unable to keep from acknowledging the truth, the depth of care she had for the young boy. “I can’t—” She broke off in another sob, but then caught hold of herself, breathing deeply. “I can’t lose another brother. I just can’t.”
And that’s when it came pouring out of her, the story of how Kerrin had been killed trying to keep their father from being arrested, how Kiva had been swept away to Zalindov with Faran, only to lose him less than a year later. The whole time she spoke, Jaren held her against his chest, embracing her in his solid, comforting warmth.
When, finally, the last of her tears fell and the tension left her body, she didn’t have it in her to feel embarrassed, not on top of every other emotion she was dealing with. She did, however, manage to step out of Jaren’s arms and whisper, “Sorry.”
He shook his head. “Never apologize for loving someone. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”
Kiva inhaled deeply in an effort to keep the tears from starting all over again. Enough crying. As long as there was breath in Tipp’s body, she would not give up on him. He was young, he was healthy.
If anyone could survive this, it was him. He had to survive this.
“We should get back in there,” she said, pointing to the infirmary. “I just . . . I just needed a minute.” She made herself meet Jaren’s eyes. “Thank you. For being here.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Kiva,” he said softly. “You’re not in this alone. Any of it.”
She swallowed and nodded, unable to offer a verbal response, but still trying to convey how grateful she was to have him by her side.
“Come on, let’s go make sure Naari hasn’t accidentally set the rats free,” Jaren said, taking Kiva’s hand and leading her back along the path. “The last thing we need is for Tipp to wake up and start chasing them all around the infirmary.”
A small laugh left Kiva, slightly hollow but still genuine. She clung to his offer of levity, pushing away her fear, her grief, and shared, “He had a chest infection about two years ago, and I swear he was the worst patient I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t keep him in his bed—he always had something he needed to do, somewhere he had to be. I nearly had to strap him down just to get him to go to sleep.” She smiled softly at the memory. “If we’d had the rats then, he would have been a nightmare, wanting to play with them all the time. I’d have had no chance at keeping him under control.”
Jaren chuckled. “Just you wait, then. If that’s the kind of fighting spirit he has, I’m sure he’ll be back on his feet in no time.”
It was an empty promise, but it was exactly what Kiva needed to hear as they reached the doorway to the infirmary and she prepared herself for what might come over the next few hours.
“You ready?” Jaren asked, squeezing her fingers.
“No,” Kiva said truthfully. “But I want to be with him.”
And so they reentered the infirmary together, and Kiva spent the rest of the day watching over Tipp, willing him to fight, willing him to live.
Hours passed as the shadows shifted across the room, until suddenly it was night again. Kiva wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or concerned that Tipp hadn’t awoken since that morning. She remained in a vigil beside him, leaving only for brief periods to check on Tilda and her other patients. Seven more were admitted into her care, and nine more passed away, the numbers continuing to grow every day. When Mot came to collect the dead, he didn’t ask any questions of Kiva, with Naari and Jaren having already filled him in.
He did stand behind her for a while, though, offering silent companionship as they looked down at the small boy, counting his breaths.
“He’s strong, luv,” Mot said, his hand steady on her shoulder. “If anyone can pull through, it’s our Tipp.”
Kiva only nodded, then listened as Mot’s footsteps faded along with the morgue workers he’d brought to carry the bodies away. She didn’t allow herself to wonder how long it would be before they came for Tipp . . . or how she would cope when that moment arrived.
It was just before midnight when Tipp stirred again.
Kiva was in the middle of brewing herself some yellownut tea, desperate for an energy boost since she was barely able to keep her eyes open. Naari and Jaren were slumped on stools, leaning against the worktable, both of them looking as tired as she felt. But still, they were with her, holding true to Jaren’s promise that she wouldn’t be
alone.
“Is it m-morning?”
Kiva looked over to find Tipp pushing himself up in bed. She lowered her infuser and rushed to his bedside, Naari and Jaren right on her heels.
“Not yet,” Kiva answered, pressing her hand to his forehead. She wondered if maybe he was a little cooler than earlier, but that was likely wishful thinking on her part. “How’re you feeling?”
Tipp’s face fell, as if he suddenly remembered where he was and why, and he curled in a little more on himself. “My t-tummy hurts.”
“And your head?” Kiva asked, her fingers still warm from his
fevered skin.
“No, just my t-tummy.”
Kiva’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure? It doesn’t hurt here?” She touched the side of his face, near his temple.
Tipp shook his head and repeated, “Just my t-tummy.”
Kiva removed her hand, looking at him closely. All of the other sick prisoners had horrible headaches accompanying their stomach pain, including the new patients who had arrived that day. It was one of the earliest symptoms they experienced, along with their rising temperature.
Reaching for Tipp’s blanket, Kiva pushed it aside and lifted the hem of his tunic, ignoring his weak protest when she raised it enough to expose the flesh of his abdomen.
No rash.
His skin was smooth.
Kiva tucked his blanket back in, offering his arm a quick, comforting squeeze to say she was done, her mind whirling as she sought to put a timeline on what she knew of the sickness. Fever, headaches, and vomiting came first, the rash usually appearing within twenty-four hours. Kiva didn’t know at what point yesterday Tipp had been struck down by the illness, but she’d left early in the morning with Naari. If he’d gone out to the garden shortly afterward, as Olisha had claimed, then he’d already passed the twenty-four- hour mark, even the thirty-six-hour mark and beyond. He should have the rash by now. And he should have had a raging headache since the beginning.
Maybe it was because he was young, the sickness taking longer to flood his system, with the missing symptoms still to come.
And yet Kiva recalled something her father had told her when trying to explain the difference age could play in illnesses.
Children often get it worse, he’d said, brushing his knuckles down her rosy cheek. It comes on you fast and hard, but leaves that way, too. Then you’re up and bouncing around much quicker than us oldies, fully recovered in what feels like the blink of an eye, while we’re still miserable as we wait for the lingering dregs to leave our systems. Winking at her, he’d finished, Cherish the gift of youth while you still have it, little mouse.
If her father was right—and he always was when it came to healing—then Tipp should be considerably worse than he currently was.
Kiva didn’t want to give herself false hope, but . . . what if Tipp wasn’t sick? Or at least, wasn’t sick with whatever was spreading around the prison? His symptoms were similar, but that was the problem Kiva had faced all along—that the symptoms were so generic they could have been caused by any number of ailments, from viruses to allergies to something as simple as having eaten spoiled food.
There was no way to know for sure, nothing to do except ride it out and see what happened over the next few hours.
And so Kiva sat back down beside him, clutching his hands with hers, and waited.
Four hours later, Tipp’s fever broke.
His stomach stopped hurting.
He asked for some bread.
He wanted to play with the rats.
Kiva wept.
