He kept to the back ways until he reached South Bridge. It seemed that things had cooled off after all. Two sleepy bluejackets manned each end of the bridge, and no one seemed to be looking for Han Alister.

Lucius had told him word was out that he was dead. Han decided that being dead made travel through the city much easier.

Once across the bridge, Han wove through the familiar web of Ragmarket, heading for home. It was still not fully dark, though the sun had descended behind Westgate, and a few stars pricked the pale sky. This far north, the days were long in midsummer. Those enterprises that required the cover of darkness were compressed into a few intense hours.

Han’s heart beat faster. He loved summer nights in the city, when music poured from the open doors of taverns and vendors grilled sausages and fish on the sidewalks, and the drunks in the alleys never froze to death. Fancy girls joked with the bluejackets, and people played hard, intoxicated by the notion that anything could happen. And probably would. The streets were more dangerous, yet in some ways more forgiving in the summertime.

The last time he’d been home, Ragmarket and Southbridge had been unnaturally quiet, spooked by the series of Southie murders. Now it was more like he remembered it, when he was running with the Raggers.

As he neared home, he began seeing yellow flags nailed onto doors or hanging out of windows, signifying the presence of remittent fever. In the summertime, the yellow flags sprouted in certain neighborhoods, like a crop of garish death flowers or the bright yellow brain fungus that sometimes grew on dead trees.

That was the dark side of summer.

Some said the fever was due to bad air. Willo said it was caused by bad water. Whatever it was, it was confined to the Vale. It was never a problem in the upland camps.

When he reached the stable yard, he looked up to the second floor of the stable and saw a yellow rag stuffed between sash and sill.

Han slammed his way into the stable and took the stairs two at a time. When he flung open the door, he was met by the stink of every kind of sick.

Mari lay on her pallet next to the hearth. Although the air in the room was stifling, the fire was lit and Mari was piled high with blankets, shivering uncontrollably. Mam sat on the floor next to her, leaning against the wall. She blinked up at Han, like she’d fallen asleep sitting there.