She started to explain but realized she couldn’t. That she didn’t know how to explain what happened because she didn’t understand it. Didn’t even want to think about it. She managed to say, “They’re in the hospital.”

Mom dropped the towel. “Who?”

“All of them.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Marcus said, for about the hundredth time. “I just didn’t know…” He carried Olena’s unconscious body pressed to his chest. Face flushed and sweaty, his breathing came hard. His arms quivered with fatigue, but he kept moving. His one goal the only thing driving him.

The hours since he broke through the barricade had been one long misery of motion and worry. He dodged soldiers and troop transports heading toward Talas, and refugees fleeing the city in vehicles and on foot. He darted for cover as helicopters flew in low, thrumming their way toward Talas, and squirmed even faster when fighter jets appeared, always instantly there, announcing themselves with an earsplitting roar.

All the while he kept checking Olena. For a time she had been feverish. She had bouts of trembling, and would occasionally mumble something. Later she went deathly still and got cooler to the touch. Her breathing became so faint Marcus feared time and again that she’d died. That he’d killed her. If that turned out to be true, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. He’d go to Talas and give in to the madness. Part of him wanted to do that even now. First, though, he had to try the one thing he thought might save her.

It wasn’t until he cut away from the highway and up the valley toward the village that the last sounds of the chaos truly fell away. By the time he dragged himself down the main street of the village under the lightening sky of dawn, the world seemed almost normal. Quiet. Tranquil. The dusty street was empty, breath held. He slid down it, Olena so very limp and cool against him. He set her down on the street in front of the Handsmith’s house. He hated the way her head lolled, the way her arms and legs flopped. He told himself that she wasn’t dead. Not yet. Not yet.

He slithered away to pound on the Handsmith’s door. “Jyrgal! Jyrgal! It’s Marcus. Please help me!” He kept up his pounding on the frail door until it opened. Jyrgal looked warily out at him, wearing only a long nightshirt. The amorphous stubs of his hands were uncovered, writhing. His wife stood behind him, looking frightened.

“Olena’s dying,” Marcus said. “She’s cold and barely breathing. She needs Nurassyl.”

The man stared at him, perplexed and, of course, not understanding his English. Marcus grasped him by the arms. He pulled him through the doorway and pointed at Olena. Jyrgal said something under his breath and rushed to her. He knelt beside her, checked her pulse, her forehead. He looked back up at Marcus. He wanted, Marcus knew, to understand what was wrong with her. Even if they spoke the same language, what could Marcus say? That he’d poisoned her to save her? And how could he convey what he’d been trying to save her from? He couldn’t explain anything, so he just pleaded, “Please. Bring Nurassyl. Please…”