“Fifteen hours.”

Wow! That explained some things. “I must’ve been a long way gone.”

“You’re lucky the Dead Man is awake. And not just because of the breathing.”

“Huh?”

“You made me so mad I almost killed you last night. You tried to die on me.”

“Uh… all right.” This sounded like one of those times when anything I said would be the wrong thing. Even silence wouldn’t cut it. But silence would bring on the fewest lumps and bruises.

“You probably shouldn’t get up. But we need to get you bathed and get your bed changed.”

“Sickness is a bitch. Has to happen right in the middle of everything.” We’d lost what, two days already?

Nothing has been lost by your suffering. Nothing has happened.

Tinnie got that, too. She told me, “It’s snowing again. It’s weird. We’ve had half a winter’s worth and it really shouldn’t have started yet.”

More water arrived. Dean didn’t carp about anything. That meant I’d definitely had a close call. I drank some, then said, “I’m starving. But I feel nothing better than chicken soup coming on.”

“And be thankful for that.”

“Old Bones. Was it the samsom weed? Or something else?”

You have Mr. White to thank for your situation. If not the person called Kolda. The supposed antidote appears to be another poison.

Teacher. The kind of guy who went to the trouble he’d gone to to get even for Spider Webb and Original Dick might’ve wanted to get even with me.

“Hey! Why didn’t you warn me? Wouldn’t you have seen it in Teacher’s head if he was trying to poison me?”

White appeared to have no conscious villainy in progress.

Dean brought the anticipated chicken soup. Only it was nothing but broth. All the good stuff had been strained out.

It was warm and thick and I was starving. I sucked it down till I couldn’t hold any more.

Minutes later I declared, “I’m starting to feel human.” Pause. “Well? Somebody going to jump on the straight line?”

“Nobody’s in the mood, Garrett. The last fifteen hours were misery curdled. Ready downstairs, Dean?”

“Steamer’s going. Water’s hot. The tub is out. I’ll get something to dry him off and we’ll be set.”

Tinnie snapped, “Off your butt, big boy. It’s bath time.”

I stood. With help. The world hadn’t gone stable, but it didn’t have that awful wobble where I tripped and stumbled into a nightmare dreamland.

I felt stronger by the time we hit the kitchen. Where the air was thick with steam, the herb stench watered my eyes, and the heat was overpowering.

Dean had dragged the big copper laundry tub up from the cellar. Two smaller tubs were heating on the stove. I said, “This ought to cook a few demons out of me.”

“If only,” Tinnie and Dean sneered at the same instant.

Ifonly. You should be beyond crisis, Garrett. But we must make sure. You are doing most of your own breathing. Secondarily, Dean and Miss Tate wish to render your personal aroma somewhat less piquant.

I didn’t have energy enough to get my feelings bruised.

Tinnie grumbled, “Arms over your head. Off with those filthy duds.”

In the steam and heat I caught whiffs of what everybody else had been suffering all along.

No wonder Singe and her miracle nose were elsewhere.

That weed sweat was pretty awful.

They steamed me for the rest of the century. They were generous with water and beer, but still I sweated a good ten pungent pounds. And was too weak afterward to make it back to bed on my own.

My bedding had been changed. Somebody had opened the window briefly, despite the weather. A charcoal burner was warming the room now. Herbs had been added, meant to mask bad smells.

I collapsed. My last recollection was Tinnie cursing like a Marine as she levered loose extremities into bed.

I regained consciousness with a furious hangover- again-and a worse attitude. How many times would I go round this circle of misery? Hell. Maybe I could get my karma all polished up in one lifetime.

I had no strength. I was a big glob of pancake goo, just splattered there. If I’d been able to feel sorry for anybody else, I would’ve reflected on how awful life must be for Chodo. But from the surface of the griddle the horizon is close. Only a strong caution from the Dead Man and a residual dollop of survival instinct kept me from taking it out on Tinnie.

It is not her fault. It is not her fault. He is handy, sometimes.

“The Dead Man says you’re cured.” Damn her eyes, she was chipper. Perky, even. Which made it harder to hold back. “There’s some work you can do today. Notice, you’re breathing on your own now.” Tinnie fed me watery porridge and honeyed tea. “You more inclined to concentrate on the manufactory full-time now?”

Here came some potholes in the high road to romance.

“I thought you all wanted me to stay away.” On account of I mutter and sputter and carry on like the group conscience. Particularly when they’re trying to expand the corporate profit margin.

“You could keep your mouth shut. You can contribute without making everybody want to smack you with a shaping mallet. Security is getting to be a challenge. We’ve had parts go missing. We think somebody is trying to build a three-wheel at home.”

Singe arrived with a tray. But no food. “This tea has willow bark in it. Dean thought you might have a hangover.”

I did, but I was getting better. “Thanks. How come nothing else?”

Singe eyed Tinnie’s tray. “Your gut can’t handle anything heavier.”

I was ready to tie into a mammoth steak. “Not even soup?”

“Soup for lunch. Maybe. Maybe something solid for supper. If you keep the soup down.”

I was cranky enough to chew rocks. But some damnable shred of decency wouldn’t let me snarl and bitch when people were babying me. Probably supplemented by a suspicion that the babying would stop.

I drank tea. I drank water. By the time I finished dressing and got downstairs I was thirsty again.

Dean gave me apple juice. The flavor hit my mouth like an unexpected explosion. After an almost painful moment I understood that I had my sense of taste back, never having realized that it was gone.

How is your writing hand? Recovered, I trust?

I muttered. I grumbled. I made noises like I might not only go to work at the manufactory full-time. I might move there with all my treasures and none of my burdens.

I got a big mental sneer in reply. And a confession that, The transcription is complete. Merry Sculdyte has departed, in a state of vast confusion. He has memories he knows are not his own. But he cannot sort those out from others that are. He is afflicted with suspicions of his brother and benevolent feelings toward Teacher White. Who, he vaguely recollects, saved his life and nursed him back to health after somebody tried to assassinate him.

“You seem to have lost some scruples.”

They are not lost. They are in abeyance.

I was so amazed I forgot to feel sorry for Ma Garrett’s baby boy for nearly a minute. “Oh? Explain a little more.”

The Sculdyte family has a plan. An extreme plan. Not advantageous for TunFaire. Much better if Miss Contague continues to wrangle the underworld. Her victims are her own kind. And deserving.

I understood once I skimmed notes from those Merry memories not recorded in my own fair hand.

Rory did have a plan. It involved destroying the Watch. He expected backing from the Hill once the killing started. But Merry had known no names. It sounded more like raw wish fulfillment than solid scheme, but Sculdyte was convinced that a reckoning with the Watch was imminent. Upon removal of Chodo and his wicked daughter.

The Contague name still had conjure power.