“Of course. I’ll bring it to you, as soon as I can.” Peony’s portscreen. The prince’s android. The car. “I’m so sorry, Peony, but I need to go.”
The small hands tightened.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”
Peony took in a shaky breath, sniffed, then released her. She dug her frail hands beneath the blanket, burying herself up to her chin.
Cinder stood and untangled Peony’s hair with her fingers. “Try to get some sleep. Reserve your strength.”
Peony followed Cinder with her watery gaze. “I love you, Cinder. I’m glad you’re not sick.”
Cinder’s heart tightened. Pursing her lips, she bent over and placed a kiss against Peony’s damp forehead. “I love you too.”
She struggled to breathe as she forced herself to walk away, trying to trick herself into being hopeful. There was a chance. A chance.
She didn’t look at any of the other patients as she made her way to the quarantine’s exit, but then she heard her name. She paused, thinking that the sandpaper voice had been nothing more than her imagination mixed with too many hysterical cries.
“Cin-der?”
She turned and spotted a familiar face half-covered by an age-bleached quilt.
“Chang-ji?” She neared the foot of the bed, nose wrinkling at the pungent odor wafting from the woman’s bed. Chang Sacha, the market baker, was barely recognizable with her swollen eyelids and sallow skin.
Trying to breathe normally, Cinder rounded the bed.
The quilt that rested across Sacha’s nose and mouth shifted with her belabored breathing. Her eyes were glossy, as wide as Cinder had ever seen them. It was the only time she could remember Sacha looking at her without disdain. “You too? Cinder?”
Instead of answering, Cinder said, uncertainly, “Can I do anything for you?”
They were the kindest words that had ever passed between them. The blanket shifted, inching down Sacha’s face. Cinder bit back a gasp at seeing the blue-ringed splotches on the woman’s jaw and down her throat.
“My son,” she said, wheezing each word. “Bring Sunto? I need to see him.”
Cinder didn’t move, remembering how Sacha had ordered Sunto away from her booth days before. “Bring him?”
Sacha snaked one arm out from beneath the blankets and reached toward Cinder, grasping her wrist where skin met metal. Cinder squirmed, trying to pull away, but Sacha held tight. Her hand was marked by bluish pigment around her yellowed fingernails.
The fourth and final stage of the blue fever.
“I will try,” she said. She reached up, hesitated, then pet Sacha on the knuckles. The blue fingers released her and sank to the bed.
“Sunto,” Sacha murmured. Her gaze was still locked on Cinder’s face, but the recognition had faded. “Sunto.”
Cinder stepped back, watching as the words dried up. The life dulled in Sacha’s black eyes.
Cinder convulsed, tying her arms around her stomach. She looked around. None of the other patients were paying any attention to her or the woman—the corpse—beside her. But then she saw the android rolling toward them. The med-droids must be linked somehow, she thought, to know when someone dies.
How long did it take for the notification comm to be sent to the family? How long would it be before Sunto knew he was motherless?
She wanted to turn away, to leave, but she felt rooted to the spot as the android wheeled up beside the bed and took Sacha’s limp hand between its grippers. Sacha’s complexion was ashen but for the bruised blotches on her jaw. Her eyes were still open, turned toward the heavens.
Perhaps the med-droid would have questions for Cinder. Perhaps someone would want to know the woman’s final words. Her son might want to know. Cinder should tell someone.
But the med-droid’s sensor did not turn toward her.
Cinder licked her lips. She opened her mouth but could think of nothing to say.
A panel opened in the body of the med-droid. It reached in with its free prongs and pulled out a scalpel. Cinder watched, mesmerized and disgusted, as the android pressed the blade into Sacha’s wrist. A stream of blood dripped down Sacha’s palm.