Page 26 of These Immortal Truths
She thinks of Piers, of the family he must have by now, and prays the shadow staining the city of Venice won’t spread far enough to reach him.
She crouches, her skirts tucked around her knees as she checks the bandages of a middle-aged gentleman. The pustules look worse, blackened flesh spreading around the open sore like poison. Anna tries not to notice that he’s roughly the same age as Piers.
“I admit, I never envisioned you marrying yourself to God. I’m feeling a little betrayed, if I’m honest.”
Anna’s lips purse, hands pausing. The voice behind her is feminine, lilted with a cadence so pure it rings like the bells of St. Mark’s Basilica before Mass. Paired with the words, it should be no question who it is speaking. Still, the habit comes as enough of a surprise to cast doubt, despite Anna not recognizing the face as someone from the monastery.
Then the nun smiles, sly and so crookedlyhim.Anna huffs. “It seems to be the only way to treat people without being called a witch. Now isn’t a good time.” She glances at the habit pointedly. “Also, that’s a bit sacrilegious even for you, isn’t it?”
“Only to those I take great delight in offending.”
Anna frowns, baffled, but he doesn’t give her time to ask. His eyes scan over her patient, lips thin. “While I respect that you’re terribly busy, I have to ask. Youdounderstand that you’re not immune to disease?”
Painfully. Last year, when they had a large influx of influenza, Anna caught it from a patient. She had been miserable for a week.Before that, she’s caught multiple ailments over the years. Nothing ever too terrible, but bothersome enough. “Yes.”
His stare is weighted with a judgment she does not want. “Then you know you aren’t immune tothis.” He gestures to the patient at his feet.
Anna suspected. She can see no reason why this would be any different, but she doesn’t dignify him with an answer. Instead, she retaliates with a question of her own. “Will it kill me?”
Eyes, hazel flecked with green, regard her carefully. Anna wonders what color hair lies beneath the habit. “Death and suffering are two different matters.” She gestures a hand to the bodies, pale wrist gleaming—clean and without flaw—in the dim light. Leave it to Khiran to be pristine even when surrounded by filth. “You’ve treated these people long enough to understand what awaits you should you continue.”
She wished she could claim otherwise. The last two weeks have been a blur of feverish eyes, pustule ridden bodies, and a growing sense of fear. What started off as only a handful of dock workers with mysterious lesions has grown into a full blown pandemic. The bodies lining Venice’s narrow streets are quickly outnumbering the living.
“They’re saying it’s punishment from God,” she murmurs, eyes lifting to meet Khiran’s. “Is it?”
“Another one? I would have thought that excuse would have grown a bit tired by now.” A graceful hand gestures to the patient at her feet. “There is nothing divine here. Just another sickness. Give it time, Anna, and you’ll come to realize miracles and curses are usually just words people hide behind when they don’t know any better.”
Anna shakes her head, fighting the swell of feeling rising in her throat. “Not like this,” she murmurs, voice hoarse. “It’s never been like this.”
Khiran stares down at her patient. “Perhaps not to your eyes, but the world is much larger than you give it credit for. The East has already witnessed this plague’s savagery.”
Anna wishes the information gave her hope, but there’s a message hidden in the words left unsaid. “There’s no cure, is there?”
“No. Some will find the strength to fight through it. Most won’t.” Hazel eyes meet hers. “If you insist on continuing this work, I’d caution you not to get overly attached.”
“Most of my patients are out of their mind with fever. Our interactions are hardly lucid enough to be called conversation.”
“To anyone, Anna. Not your fellow nuns or caretakers. Not the healers with their ridiculous ensembles. You will lose more than you keep.”
Anna pales, fighting the chill that travels up her spine. “Oh,” she says. A weak word hanging on the edges of a weak breath.
Khiran regards her closely. “Leave, Anna. Whatever there may be here for you, won’t be for much longer. If you leave now, perhaps you can outrun the spread.”
She shakes her head, her own habit brushing across her shoulders with the movement. “They need help—if anyone is to survive—they’ll need help.” Her gaze drops to her patient, noting the wheeze in his breathing and the hollows in his cheeks. Anna wonders if he has a family waiting for him or if they’re here, stashed away in some back hallway, too.
“So you’ll stay and … what? Sacrifice yourself to save the few?”
The laugh that leaves her is humorless, as dry and fragile as kindling. “Is it really still a sacrifice? When I know, no matter how many bodies this city buries, that I’m certain to walk away?”
The eyes that stare back at her are heavy—weighted with knowing. “There is sacrifice in more than just death, Anna.”
She swallows, trying to soothe the ache in her throat. It does little to help. There is still much she doesn’t understand about him, but she can’t deny that he holds knowledge that makes her mere centuries of life seem pale in comparison. She has no response, but it’s just as well because one of the physicians has come to make his rounds. Anna can’t help but wonder if he’ll survive, or if this disease will strike him down as it did with the doctor whose body they’d sent off to be buried yesterday.
Khiran’s hands fold, a warning lacing his voice. “Take care, Anna.”
She doesn’t make it three days.
The fever starts midmorning. By supper, the chills have become too violent to hide them. Her teeth chatter around her aching, swollen tongue. When the sun sets, she’s been laid out beside the patients she had helped treat only that morning.
