Cresta came to a stop in front of Kiva, pointing a finger straight at her face. Naari edged closer, but didn’t interfere.

“My friends are sick and dying,” Cresta said, moving her finger back toward the infirmary. “And you’re out here doing—what? What’re you doing, healer? ’Cause you damn well aren’t making them any better.”

At first, Kiva was relieved, having feared Cresta had approached to remind her that Tilda needed to stay alive, and Tipp’s life would be forfeited if Kiva failed tomorrow’s task. Never mind that Kiva’s life would also be forfeited. They were all linked now; Cresta had no need to continue threatening her. But then Kiva processed what the irate woman had said, and a heavy feeling hit her stomach. This wasn’t about protecting the Rebel Queen at all. This was about something beyond one person, beyond any of them, rebels included.

“Cresta . . .”

“Don’t you ‘Cresta’ me,” the young woman spat, her expression so livid that her serpent tattoo looked like it would rise out of her face and strike at Kiva. “You want to know what just happened? Tykon dropped like a slab of luminium halfway to the quarry, couldn’t get up again. Shaking, puking everywhere. Harlow let me drag him back, but only so he could follow and stare at my ass the whole way, the perverted fu—”

“Where’s Tykon now?” Kiva interrupted, cringing at the thought of the repugnant quarry master.

Cresta pointed toward the infirmary again. “He’s where you should be. But you’re not. Because you’re here.” She slammed her finger toward the earth, silently demanding an answer.

“I’m . . . working to fix it,” Kiva said cautiously.

“To fix what?” Cresta shoved her matted red hair over her shoulder. “This stomach virus?”

“Yes,” Kiva said, not offering any more, and wondering when Naari was going to step in and stop this.

Cresta’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

Kiva raised her hands. “I’m not. Why do you think I was at the quarry? I was collecting samples for testing, just like I am today.” She patted the bag on her shoulder.

“That was over a fortnight ago,” Cresta exclaimed. “More and more people are dying every day. Hell, everyone who comes to see you for the smallest thing ends up getting sick—explain that, healer! Are you telling me you’re still trying to figure out why? ”

Kiva didn’t have a response, unsure what she was allowed to say, especially to someone as volatile as Cresta. If the rebel leader used this to stir up more dissent among the prisoners, if she tried to create a panic . . . Things were already brewing too close to the surface, with whispers circulating about what had happened nine years earlier, the same spreading sickness, the same mass deaths. The murmurs were growing, the fears deepening. If something didn’t calm the inmates soon . . .