The next day, Coir had another episode of fever, and Jareen tended him as was her duty. The episode was not quite so severe or long-lasting, but it left him weak and sluggish by evening. A packet of letters arrived for him, dropped through the slot in the vestibule. Jareen did not scruple to check for any sign of a Vien missive in their number, but all were in Noshian hand. Lying with his arm over his face on his reclining couch, Coir told Jareen to set the packets next to him, and when she offered to read them for him, he snapped at her and told her to leave him be. Why letters were being delivered to him even now, she did not know and couldn’t help but be curious.

  She awoke in the night smelling the scent of beeswax. Few but the wealthy could afford beeswax candles. The poorer Noshians used reeking tallow candles when they had candles at all. Cracking her door, she peered out. Coir was asleep in a half-sitting position. The barest nub of a candle remained burning. Around it, melted wax had hardened onto the table. The letter covers were opened and discarded, and oddly enough, the letters themselves were tucked under his left thigh, away from the edge of the couch. She flitted out into the larger room and snuffed out the candle, then returned to bed.

  The next day, she woke earlier than usual. The pre-dawn grey was just starting to lighten the eastern sky. After the episode he’d had the day before, she intended to make more frequent checks. It was a surprise when she entered his chamber to find him already awake and sitting on the edge of the couch, a candle burning. There was parchment, a pen, and an inkwell on the table before him, and he had obviously been writing. A sealed packet lay next to him, the red wax stamped with the mark of the archives. The first thing that came to her mind was that he had drawn up a will. Voiceless Sisters were sometimes requested to safeguard wills for the wealthy until their departure. It was a dangerous thing to be asked—accusations of breaking trust could be deadly for a Sister—so the Sisters took wills to the Wards to be kept by the Arch Sister under lock.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “In infectious cases, we cannot have documents sent to the Wards.”

  “That is no matter,” Coir replied, taking the packet and setting it on his lap. “It is merely for my comfort.”

  She squinted.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” she asked, moving smoothly to his side with the practiced ease of a Sister approaching to feel for a pulse. He pulled his wrist away.

  “Fine, fine.”

  There was a sound in the vestibule.

  “Breakfast, I think,” he said.

  Jareen went and retrieved the plates, first setting up Coir’s meal as she did each morning. He watched her steady, calm movements as she poured a cup of tea from the small clay pot refilled—still hot this morning—through the slot. The aroma of the bitter dark Noshian brew filled her nostrils.

  “I know I am not the most pleasant of Departing,” he said as she finished pouring. “I would like to do something for you if I can.”

  “There is nothing that needs done.”

  “I have seen the. . . meals that they are sending for you. Is there anything more you want, that you would not dare to ask? Please, tell me.”

  “Sisters are forbidden from receiving favors.”

  Coir cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

  “It is hardly a favor to feed you.”

  “I will ask nothing.”

  “Fine. I promise I won’t do anything about it,” he said, raising his palms. “But I’m curious what it would be. Surely the food in Drennos is. . . lacking for you?”

  Jareen hesitated.

  “Our private lives are—”

  “Don’t pretend you have a private life,” he interrupted. “Private thoughts yes, but I know enough about the Voiceless to know you have little to call life beyond your work. Just tell me. It will comfort a dying man.”

  “Fruit,” she said.

  “Any particular kind? What is the best?”

  Jareen shrugged.

  “There is little fruit in Nosh. Oranges sometimes, and limes.”

  “There is little fruit in most of Nosh,” Coir said. “We are in the Manse.”

  “And you promised to do nothing.”

  He tilted his head. “As a matter of fact, hearing you speak about fruit. . . I have a sudden longing for some myself. When the servants come to bring lunch, please relay to them that from now on, I would like as much fruit as possible. This constant meat no longer agrees with me.”

  “You promised you would not do anything about it.”

  Coir smirked.

  “What will you do about it? Kill me? I’m asking for myself. I do want fruit, and I may as well reap the rewards of being a high official. Besides, how often does one get to enjoy the goodwill that mortal illness engenders? They’ll send me anything to keep from feeling the guilt of surviving.”

  Jareen pressed her lips together, knowing he could not see her expression behind the Sister’s veil.

  “I will ask them to send you fruit,” she said, turning to leave.

  “Wait. Sit, please. I would have company this morning. And, if you would humor me, I have questions about Vien fruits.”

  When the servant-girl came with the midday meal, Jareen told her that the arch archivist desired fruit. The first heaping portion came that evening. It was still early in the season for melons, but there were sliced apples from last fall—brown in places with wrinkled skin—and tiny early strawberries. The smell made Jareen’s mouth water. She carried the platter in to Coir and set it before him.

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  “Ugh,” he said. “Look at that. Brown.”

  “They are last Autumn’s.”

  Coir sighed.

  “I’ve lost my appetite. Please take them away.”

  Jareen frowned, then looked down at the fruit.

  “I agree,” he continued. “It would be a shame to waste fruit. Many of the poor so rarely ever taste it. Of course, we could give it away, but then we are in quarantine and are not allowed. I guess you’ll have to eat it.”

  Jareen did not like being teased in this way, even though her mouth watered. All she had was the dignity of her office as a Voiceless Sister, a set of rules to follow that wrapped her in aloof safety. Yet within her chamber were stacks of letters, the sanctity of which she continued to break.

  “Do not pretend you did not know what I was doing,” Coir said. “Maybe you lied to yourself, but it is I who broke a promise. Will I face judgment in the next life for this broken promise, oh you who believe so strongly in. . . physiognomy?”

  “Maybe you will want it later.”

  “Eat the damn fruit!” Coir shouted. “Or I’ll chuck it down the garderobe! Why do you perturb your Departing?”

  ***

  Coir had two more episodes of fever over the next week, and he swung between bouts of sullenness and episodes of pleasant eagerness wherein he convinced Jareen to speak with him about Vien life. To pass the time as anything, and to do her duty as a Sister, Jareen told him what she could, often wishing she had the eloquence of the letter writer. Of her personal life, she refused to speak, but he had many questions about mundane things—food, drink, weather, and even methods of composting. When she inquired why he was so interested in such things, he responded that he had worked for many years on compiling an atlas of Findeluvié, and until the illness could stop him by force, he would continue his work.

  Oddly enough, Coir kept receiving mail with some of the meals, and she woke a few more times to the smell of candles burning or found dull marks on the table where wax had been cleaned, as if the archivist had attempted to leave no trace of his midnight writings. Yet Jareen had practiced the observation of the Departing for as long as Coir had been alive. She knew he was staying up. She could hear the scratching of the pen on rough parchment as she lay upon her bed. Whether he truly worked on his atlas—a compulsive chronicler until the end—or something else, she could not guess.

  Occasionally, Coir did eat some of the fruit, but mostly she ate it. As much as she disliked his manipulation, she could not bring herself to throw it away. Silesh came once more to inquire about the Departing, sent by Noreen at the behest of the regency. This time, Jareen made sure to inquire about how Silesh’s novitiate was going. As it happened, she had spent the entire time in the Wards, not returning to the city districts at all. It was the heaviest duty a Sister could have, without even the break of walking from house to house. Silesh looked tired, her eyes heavy and dark. The sight of the novice gave Jareen a pang of guilt. Here she was, rested and eating fruit, caring for a man who barely needed care, whose condition, despite the episodes of fever, had yet to truly deteriorate.

  It was the night after the archivist’s fourth bout of fever when Jareen awoke, smelling beeswax and hearing the scratch of the pen. She could see the faint flicker of light in the crack beneath her door, despite the moonlight shining in through her window. A west wind pressed against the glass, making the pane creak in its whitewashed wooden frame.

  The scratching of the pen stopped. She had gone to sleep atop her bed fully clothed, ready to attend to her Departing rapidly since he had fevered that day. Carefully, she stood and slipped over to the door to listen. She told herself it was to see if something was wrong, to make sure he did not fall asleep with a candle burning. Something scraped against the floor on the far side of the outer room, then creaked. There was a second scraping sound, this time high up. The light beneath the door flickered, and a draft of cool air touched her feet.

  She opened her door quickly to prevent sound. Across the room, Coir stood atop a chair below the small high window. He had managed to open it somehow, tilting the frame upwards.

  “Are you well?” she asked.

  The archivist nearly fell and grabbed the window-ledge. She rebuked herself for startling him as she rushed over and helped him down. His face was red. Was he fevering again? She laid a hand on his brow and felt his wrist for a pulse. He didn’t even resist. His heart was racing, but his fever had not returned, judging from the coolness of his skin. Was he delirious, anyway?

  “I just wanted some fresh air,” he said. Jareen led him back to the couch, then returned and climbed atop the chair to push the window frame back into place. He had actually pried open the wooden frame inset into the brick. It had come loose, perhaps due to age, but it slid back into place when she pushed it against the lip of the outer stone trim. The windows in the quarantine apartments—with the exception of the Sister’s room—were high in the walls, letting in light but making it difficult to tamper with them. They all had glass panes not designed to open, and they were small enough to prevent a body from getting through. These were important safety measures. Many Departing grew rash and self-destructive toward the end. Others tried to circumvent quarantine. Whoever first built the Wards with open balconies above the shore had not taken that into account, but it had become a constant reason for vigilance for the Order. Many Departing, and a few Sisters, had thrown themselves onto the rocks.

  “I understand,” Jareen said. She had found herself wishing for some breeze on her face as well. That was the reason for open air balconies in the Wards—to provide fresh air for the ill. Unless Coir’s disease progressed, she might be cooped up in the Manse for weeks yet, and the thought was troubling. She felt a fresh pang of guilt at that. She was not the one dying, after all, and Silesh was being worked to the edge of her strength in the Wards. She turned her mind to the present, again. Coir was flustered, his hand on his forehead.

  “What have you been writing tonight?” she asked in an attempt to distract him.

  “Writing?” he looked up at her, confused. “I haven’t been. Just sitting up.”

  Jareen glanced at the table. His inkwell was closed and sat with his parchments to the side of the small table where they normally waited when not in use. But she had heard him writing. The sound was unmistakable, and she had listened to it for some time. Why was he lying to her, and where was the product of his writing? She stepped to the table. Near the candle was a spoon. There were traces of wax in it still. She grasped it in her hand. The bowl was still the slightest bit warm, and the bottom was blackened, streaking soot onto her palm. He had sealed something with wax, using the spoon to melt it over the candle. She turned to Coir. He met her gaze but said nothing.

  Jareen helped Coir settle back on the couch—he still refused to sleep on the bed. After snuffing out the candle, she returned to her own chamber and locked the door behind her. She lay down again fully clothed. It was still deep night, but sleep was elusive. She had been lied to by Departing many times. It was not difficult to sense a lie, yet it was harder to sense the truth that the lie hid, particularly in this case. Something was wrong.

  In the evening, she had indulged herself by eating the whole platter of fruit, and after another hour of lying awake, she needed to visit the garderobe. It was dark in the outer chamber, so she lit a candle-nub of her own to take with her and slipped out. The quarantine apartments had their own garderobes at the back. The hole opened into a closed septic pit lined with stone so that infection would not spread. It did make for a smellier business, and so lime was kept at hand for sprinkling down the hole. Jareen performed her necessity, and as she scooped a tin cup of lime to throw down the pit, something caught the light of the candle. Stuck to the back wall of the pit was what looked like a tiny scrap of parchment. She picked up the candle and leaned over the pit, holding her breath against the smell. There, in the cesspool at the bottom, were sodden scraps of what looked like bits of parchment that had been cut into pieces. She could not make out anything else about them. Dumping the lime, she returned to her chamber and locked the door again.

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