That’s a lie! He’s the one who’s tripping over his own feet every ten paces.

  Jacquard is in front of me. His eyes are white, his face dark. “Are you dizzy, Mademoiselle?”

  “No.”

  “She’s lying,” Bastian argues.

  “Yeah.” I swallow thickly, my tongue suddenly too big for my mouth. “I am.”

  I turn away to vomit; discreetly, like a lady. I don’t make a sound other than the splat of my dinner on the grass and a soft cough to follow up. My head is spinning, my skull about to explode through my skin. When I lift my eyes to the sky to try to catch my breath, the moon looks too white to be real. It looks like a big, opaque eye staring down at me.

  It’s terrifying. I have to close my eyes before I start crying.

  I never cry.

  “What is wrong with me?” I whisper.

  “Why didn’t you tell us you were dizzy?” Bastian demands.

  “Because I thought I could handle it.”

  “Swelling on your brain isn’t something you ‘handle’.”

  “You need to rest,” Jacquard interrupts calmly. “We’ll find somewhere to bunk down for the night. Maybe longer.”

  Bastian is angry. Or irritated. Maybe he’s an elephant. I can’t tell anymore. I can’t see straight, think straight. I can’t keep my eyes open.

  “Where?” Bastian asks Jacquard.

  “I’m not sure.” He scans the area around the river. “There’s nothing here. We have to keep walking.”

  “She can’t.”

  “She has to,” Jacquard presses. “It’s either that or we leave her.”

  Bastian’s body goes rigid next to mine. “That’s not an option.”

  “Exactly.”

  He exhales sharply. His breathe is hot against my skin, the way it was in the theater, and I have the mad thought that he’s going to kiss me. No, not now. Not in front of Jacquard. But he might have in the theater. If I hadn’t screamed. If I had let him.

  “Fine,” Bastian relents, wrapping his arm around my waist. “She keeps walking, but not until we cut away some of this stupid dress and tie it around her feet. I think they’re bleeding.”

  “It’ll bring the bears,” I mutter tiredly.

  They don’t listen to me.

  It takes another eon of walking, my body slouched against Bastian, my feet wrapped in layers of cold silk, but eventually we find a village. Jacquard leaves us tucked away in a thicket of trees while he goes ahead to make sure the houses are empty. I try to fall asleep but Bastian won’t let me. He keeps shaking me. He says I’m snoring.

  I nearly scream when a shadow runs up the hill toward us. It’s dark as midnight, silent as the grave. It’s wearing Jacquard’s face.

  “It’s clear,” he pants. “It’s been nearly scavenged clean. It won’t be comfortable but it will be shelter.”

  “It’s better than nothing,” Bastian reasons.

  Jacquard doesn’t agree.

  Bastian stiffens next to me. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s a suburb. There’s a larger city behind it. It’s been burned.”

  “So was half of pre-plague France. What does that matter?”

  “Because I think the city is Nantes.”

  chapitre vingt et un

  Before the end of everything, Nantes was a thriving port town on the western end of the Loire River. It had a population of only about three-hundred-thousand but it was important to trade and travel, receiving visitors from all over the world.

  That’s why they burned it first.

  Before Paris.

  Before Marseilles and Lyon.

  Nantes.

  It’s a solid two days walk from Loire if you’re in the Armée and allowed outside the border outfitted with boots and rations. I am none of those things. I am an anchor around the necks of my companions. I’m probably going to get them killed. Then again, Bastian might get me killed just by being Bastian so really we’re all in danger and it’s everyone’s fault.

  “What will they do if they find him?” I ask Jacquard.

  He meets my eyes across the large, empty room. The house we’re hiding in is small and creaking, but the living room feels vast in its emptiness. Most of the windows are broken, all of the furniture is gone. It feels hollow and used, like a cracked egg with all the yolk spilled out. “I don’t know, Mademoiselle.”

  “They’ll kill him, won’t they?”

  “Probably.”

  That truth hurts more than I imagined.

  “And us,” I add.

  Jacquard doesn’t agree but he doesn’t argue either. His eyes are on the door, his body crouched down on one knee. On his hip I can see the dull sheen of his pistol. Just the one with how many shots in it? Five? Six? It’s not enough. Even if he has extra ammunition it will never be enough. Not if the Brûlén find us.

  “Nothing is for certain,” he says quietly.

  I nod, though I am certain he is wrong.

  I tug at the drapes he ripped off the wall for me. The tattered blue fabric is scratchy on my skin but it’s warmer than the night air. He and Bastian scavenged the house when we first got here, banging through cupboards in the kitchen and the hall. They found a few ratty towels, a single ancient can of something called SPAM that cannot possibly be edible, and a rocking chair facing the wall of the back bedroom. That’s it. Other than that it’s just peeling paint and warped floorboards.

  Bastian is outside now, doing God knows what. He was pacing the room when we first got here, his feet pounding on the floorboards and in my brain so hard I thought I’d scream. Finally, mercifully, Jacquard told him to take it outside and get some air.

  Now that it’s quiet, I keep dozing off, my eyes open like a psychopath. My brain is foggy. It’s hard to hold onto things like time and understanding. My head feels like a beating drum. Boom. Boom. Boom. My ears ring quietly, just at the edge of my hearing so I strain to listen, but the second I try to focus on the sound, it’s gone. It slips away between the cracks in the floor, laughing in a whisper I can almost hear.

  “I’m going to go insane,” I moan.

  “You’re not,” Jacquard assures me.

  “My ears are ringing. It’s seriously driving me crazy.”

  He runs his hand over his face, coughing quietly. “It’s normal. When I first enlisted in the Armée I was a medic. I’ve seen more concussions than I can count and they all felt the same way you do now. It’ll pass. Sleep if you can, but I’m going to have to wake you up now and then to make sure you can do it normally.”

  “What does abnormally waking up look like?”

  “Not waking up at all.”

  My mouth drops open wide. “I might not wake up?”

  He smiles indulgently. “You will.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do.”

  “Nothing is certain,” I remind him.

  “Except for this. I swear. You’re going to be fine.”

  I glance around the room nervously. I wish Bastian was here. I want a second opinion. “Where is he?”

  Jacquard stands, his boots thumping on the floor as he crosses to a window. The pale light of the moon is on him, watching him search. “I can’t see him.”

  “Where would he go?”

  “Wherever he wants,” he mutters.

  “Should we look for him?”

  Jacquard glances at me, then back out into the night. He’s cut in half by moonlight and shadow. By duty and responsibility.

  When he looks at me again, I shake my head. “Go find him. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not your job. He is. Go.”

  Relief washes over his face but his eyes remain worried. “I’ll be back soon. I won’t go far.”

  “Me either,” I joke.

  He doesn’t laugh.

  When he’s gone I feel deeply afraid. More than I have all night. Even more afraid than when the wave was barreling down on me and I knew in my gut that I was going to die. The problem is, I don’t know what exactly it is that I’m afraid of. There are too many options to choose from, and in the end the why doesn’t matter. It’s the feeling. It’s visceral. My lungs shrink down tight, my body shivering with anticipation of the unknown. Really, anything could happen out here. It doesn’t have to be the Brûlén. There are other tribes and gangs that live in the hinterlands. They’re smaller and crueler. True, they avoid this area because it’s so heavily trafficked by the Brûlén, so close to France, but that doesn’t mean they never come here. It doesn’t mean I’m safe.

  Especially if I’m alone.

  I stumble to my feet, instantly woozy.

  “Do not throw up. Do not throw up,” I chant.

  I don’t throw up, but I really, really want to. My mouth waters as I grip the cold doorknob in my hand, turning it with a shrill squeak that could wake the dead. Outside the air is cold and wild. In the distance I can see the charred black skeleton of Nantes looming like an omen. I wonder if they knew, the people who lived here, that the burning of the city was only the beginning. Did they stay a while after or did they leave before the fire was set? Did they pack everything or hardly anything? Did they cry? Did they run?

  Did they die?

  I wander into the narrow street. It’s cracked and uneven. Upheaved by the shifting of the earth and the relentlessness of time. There’s an entire neighborhood just two streets over. The houses are crammed together, nearly shoulder to shoulder, identical in size and shape, but on this street there are only two quaint farmhouses surrounded by small plots of land and storage buildings in complete collapse. They must have been on the edge of the village’s expansion before The Sickness. The last hold outs of a simpler, quieter way of life. On this property there’s still a bit of a barn standing, though it’s visibly leaning. The front doors are gone, a yawning, dark hole in their place. I can’t see inside but it feels empty. Everything is empty. No one has lived here in a hundred years and the tribes have nearly cleaned it all out by now.

  “What are you doing?”

  I die of fright. My spirit leaves me in a jolt, wrenched back into my body by sheer force of will. It takes me way too long to realize that the voice is Bastian’s. It takes even longer for my heart to start beating again.

  “You scared me,” I breathe raggedly.

  “What are you doing?” he repeats.

  “Captain Jacquard and I were looking for you.”

  He snorts. “He didn’t send you out here to look for me.”

  “I was nervous alone.”

  Bastian watches me for a second before reminding me, “You’re supposed to be resting.”

  I lick my lips, bile rising in my throat. “I—um—”

  “The whole reason we stopped was so you could rest and get better.”

  “I know. I—” I feel small all of the sudden. Almost weepy and frail under the weight of the curtain on my shoulders and the pounding in my head. “I shouldn’t—I was—"

  “I’ll walk you back.”

  “Where’s Jacquard?”

  “That’s a great question.”

  Bastian steers me in the direction of the house. I let him guide me with his hand on my back, my shoulder rubbing against his side with every unsteady step I take. He’s silent as he walks, like a ghost.

  Once we’re inside, he pushes me gently toward the far side of the room, away from the windows. It’s the least drafty. “Lay down. Go to sleep.”

  “Are you going to leave to look for Jacquard?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll just keep wandering off and I’ll spend the entire night tracking people down.”

  I lay gingerly on the floor, exhausted but relieved I won’t be alone. Even Bastian is better than nothing. “Will Jacquard be okay?”

  “He’s always okay.”

  “Are you okay?”

  He pauses, eyeing me closely. His face is dancing shadow that I can’t get a read on.

  “Yeah,” he answers. His voice is deep. Muted. “I’m fine.”

  chapitre vingt-deux

  Hours pass.

  My head aches.

  Jacquard hasn’t come back.

  “Do you think anyone from the theater survived?” I whisper to Bastian.

  “Yes.”

  He’s awake. I wasn’t sure. He’s so still, so quiet.

  “How many?” I ask.

  “Go to sleep, Villette.”

  “I can’t sleep. My head hurts too much.”

  “I can’t do anything to help it.”

  “I wasn’t asking you to.”

  He grunts uncomfortably. He’s on his back staring up at the hole in the ceiling.

  I lick my dry lips. I’m thirsty but I’m not going to complain about it. It wouldn’t matter if I did. All I can do is go to sleep and wake up feeling better in the morning. Jacquard will be back by then. We’ll walk out of here, get home to Loire, and everything will be fine.

  That’s what I keep telling myself.

  “What happened to the boat?” I ask even though I don’t really care. I just want to break the cycle in my head.

  Bastian sighs. Everything annoys him now that he’s sobering up. “It crashed on the shore.”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “You were so out of it, you wouldn’t have seen an elephant.”

  “Do you know why I was at the theater?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Because I thought I would safe if I was far away from you.”

  He chuckles at the irony. It’s a deep, rumbling sound, like distant thunder. “How’d that work out for you?”

  “How’d it work out for you?”

  “I’m still alive, aren’t I? That’s better than most people can say right now.”

  My breath catches. “Do you think the people in the castle are dead?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “How many?”

  “How many what?”

  “How many people do you think survived at the theater?”

  “Three,” he answers impatiently. “Now go to sleep.”

  My heart aches at the thought. Only three other survivors out of thirty or more. He can’t be right. I can’t stand it.

  Then it hits me.

  He’s talking about us.

  Him. Jacquard. Me.

  No one else.

  And Jacquard still hasn’t come back.

  chapitre vingt-trois

  The morning is intense. The devastation of the flood is so much worse in the daylight. A layer of fog has settled over the town around us, making everything seem gray and murky. It’s like being underwater.

  I hate it.

  I use the toilet in the house even though there’s no water to flush. It makes me uncomfortable to leave it like that. Like I’m being a bad guest. I get a glimpse of myself in the dirty mirror and I wish I hadn’t. My hair is a tangled mess, my skin covered in dried mud, and my eyes look empty even to me.

  Lights on, no one home.

  And still no Jacquard.

  Bastian stands at the same window his guard stood at last night, searching for him. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his dirty tuxedo pants, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. There’s a mass of dirty, white cloth wrapped around his left knee. I wonder what happened but he’s in no mood to talk about it. He’s been ugly since the sun came up. He won’t admit it, but I think he’s hungover.

  “Do you see him?” I ask.

  He ignores me because we both know the answer.

  “Do we wait for him?” I push.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do we go look for him?”

  “Villette.”

  “I know, I know,” I mutter. “You don’t know.”

  I massage my forehead, trying to push back on some of the pressure building inside my skull.

  Bastian spares me a quick glance before turning back to his watch. “Your head hurts?”

  “Like there’s a devil trapped inside it.”

  “It’s the concussion.”

  “Awesome. I hate it.”

  “Is your vision blurry?”

  I shake my head. The room starts to spin, making me sick with regret. “No. I’m fine.”

  “You look it,” he chuckles.

  “You don’t look much better.”

  “I don’t feel much better,” he mumbles.

  “Have you thrown up?”

  “I did last night. Now I’m dehydrated as hell.”

  “Sorry.”

  Bastian looks me over suspiciously, like he can’t decide if I’m serious or not. “What hurts?”

  “My head hurts but it’s also kind of swimming. Not like I’m dizzy but like I’m about to be.”

  He nods sympathetically. He’s been in so many fights, he’s probably had a concussion or two of his own. I would bet anything he knows exactly how this feels.

  “How long will it be like this?” I ask.

  “It depends. It could be days. Could be a week.”

  “We can’t stay here a week.”

  “No. We can’t.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  He sits with his back against the wall, resting his forearms on his knees. He worries a scrap of wood between his fingers. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “Let me know when you do.”

  “Why is it up to me?”

  I blink, surprised by the question. “Because…”

  “Because what?”

  “You’re Dauphin.”

  “So what?”

  “So you’re in charge.”

  He snorts, ripping the piece of wood in half. “Your mother has really done a number on you, hasn’t she? You’ve gotten so used to taking orders, you don’t know what to do with yourself without them.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Prove me wrong,” he challenges. “Tell me what we’re going to do.”

  I shake my head, my anger rising. “No, because no matter what I say, you’ll tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Not if you’re right.”

  “And you always know what’s right,” I bite.

  Bastian doesn’t reply. He leans his head against the wall, watching me under lowered lids. Waiting.

  I look around to cover the fact that I want to roll my eyes into the back of my skull. I search the empty space and the frosty gray world outside the window, planning.