“Jotham
was on the boat with us two nights ago when we went out to
inspect the ship.”
“He was indeed,” Giles said.
“It must be on the air,” Hatch said, the slightest note of
pleading now entering his voice. “Whatever it is, it comes through the air—and we took great care to remain upwind of the vessel.”
“That may be the case,” Giles said, “but I don’t think that
matters here.”
“Then how did Jotham—” Hatch began.
“I asked him where he’d been since the night before,” Giles
said, “and he admitted paying a visit to the madam’s establishment.”
“Which proves it’s not a matter of the air,” Storrs said. “It’s a question of morals.”
51
j o h n s m o l e n s
Emanuel took his pipe from his mouth and said, “It’ll spread
quickly along the waterfront—where morality is rarely, if ever,
an impediment.”
Storrs glared at him and leaned forward in his chair.
“Gentlemen,” Giles said quickly, “we have a lot to do. It’s not
just a matter of prohibiting a crew and cargo from entering the
port. We have to put guards on every road so we can control who
comes and goes to and from town. We have to determine the most
appropriate medical procedures. We have to sequester the sick,
establish a place where they can—”
“A place?” Simon Moss asked.
“Yes, we’ve dealt with this sort of thing before. I can’t with
certainty give it a name—there are so many fevers. But I know
this: we’ll need to establish a place where the afflicted may be treated—a pest-house.” Giles suddenly felt defeated and exhausted.
“And we’ll have to dig a pit.”
R
Sarah wouldn’t finish her potato soup. This was not unusual.
She often refused to eat, and it made Leander resentful because
their mother would try to coax her. For such behavior, he would
receive a slap on the head. But his sister’s reluctance to eat also made him hopeful.
Eventually, after Mother had taken Sarah onto her lap, she
pushed the bowl across the table. “We waste not a morsel in this house. Leander, you finish that before it turns stone cold.”
Sometimes this ploy would inspire Sarah to eat. But tonight
she seemed unmoved, and he picked up his spoon before she
might change her mind. His father watched him as he smoked
his pipe.
“She’s burning up,” his mother said, her hand spread across
Sarah’s forehead.
Sarah shook her head. “Cold,” she whispered. “I’m so cold.”
52
q u a r a n t i n e
And Leander could hear her teeth chattering. Then suddenly
her body began to convulse. She made a sound as though she’d
been kicked in the stomach, and she vomited on to the table. His mother stood up, holding the girl by her underarms. Shit and
blood ran down her legs.
“It’s the same smell,” Leander said, standing, moving away
from the table. “The horrible smell in Jotham Poe’s barn. I got
it on my hand, my boots, and washed it off in a puddle after the storm passed yesterday.”
His mother laid Sarah on the floor. “Towels, Caleb,” she cried.
Sarah gagged as black vomit and bits of potato continued to
issue from her mouth.
R
Some imbecile was playing the harpsichord.
Badly.
Fragments of a melody amid dissonant chords.
Miranda sat at her writing desk, listening to the hands pound
on the keys, and it created a physical reaction, a revulsion that she could not control. The shouts, the screams, the laughter, the glasses smashed in the fireplace—she could tolerate all of that, but not that harpsichord.
She got up and crossed her bedroom, and when she opened
the door the sound of the harpsichord became louder, even more
vulgar, echoing from the parlor. She went down the front stairs
and found a woman’s red shoe on the vestibule floor. The parlor
doors were closed, and when she threw them back everyone
turned and looked at her—there must have been eight or nine
people in the room, but Enoch wasn’t among them. Jonathan
Bream’s
was on the boat with us two nights ago when we went out to
inspect the ship.”
“He was indeed,” Giles said.
“It must be on the air,” Hatch said, the slightest note of
pleading now entering his voice. “Whatever it is, it comes through the air—and we took great care to remain upwind of the vessel.”
“That may be the case,” Giles said, “but I don’t think that
matters here.”
“Then how did Jotham—” Hatch began.
“I asked him where he’d been since the night before,” Giles
said, “and he admitted paying a visit to the madam’s establishment.”
“Which proves it’s not a matter of the air,” Storrs said. “It’s a question of morals.”
51
j o h n s m o l e n s
Emanuel took his pipe from his mouth and said, “It’ll spread
quickly along the waterfront—where morality is rarely, if ever,
an impediment.”
Storrs glared at him and leaned forward in his chair.
“Gentlemen,” Giles said quickly, “we have a lot to do. It’s not
just a matter of prohibiting a crew and cargo from entering the
port. We have to put guards on every road so we can control who
comes and goes to and from town. We have to determine the most
appropriate medical procedures. We have to sequester the sick,
establish a place where they can—”
“A place?” Simon Moss asked.
“Yes, we’ve dealt with this sort of thing before. I can’t with
certainty give it a name—there are so many fevers. But I know
this: we’ll need to establish a place where the afflicted may be treated—a pest-house.” Giles suddenly felt defeated and exhausted.
“And we’ll have to dig a pit.”
R
Sarah wouldn’t finish her potato soup. This was not unusual.
She often refused to eat, and it made Leander resentful because
their mother would try to coax her. For such behavior, he would
receive a slap on the head. But his sister’s reluctance to eat also made him hopeful.
Eventually, after Mother had taken Sarah onto her lap, she
pushed the bowl across the table. “We waste not a morsel in this house. Leander, you finish that before it turns stone cold.”
Sometimes this ploy would inspire Sarah to eat. But tonight
she seemed unmoved, and he picked up his spoon before she
might change her mind. His father watched him as he smoked
his pipe.
“She’s burning up,” his mother said, her hand spread across
Sarah’s forehead.
Sarah shook her head. “Cold,” she whispered. “I’m so cold.”
52
q u a r a n t i n e
And Leander could hear her teeth chattering. Then suddenly
her body began to convulse. She made a sound as though she’d
been kicked in the stomach, and she vomited on to the table. His mother stood up, holding the girl by her underarms. Shit and
blood ran down her legs.
“It’s the same smell,” Leander said, standing, moving away
from the table. “The horrible smell in Jotham Poe’s barn. I got
it on my hand, my boots, and washed it off in a puddle after the storm passed yesterday.”
His mother laid Sarah on the floor. “Towels, Caleb,” she cried.
Sarah gagged as black vomit and bits of potato continued to
issue from her mouth.
R
Some imbecile was playing the harpsichord.
Badly.
Fragments of a melody amid dissonant chords.
Miranda sat at her writing desk, listening to the hands pound
on the keys, and it created a physical reaction, a revulsion that she could not control. The shouts, the screams, the laughter, the glasses smashed in the fireplace—she could tolerate all of that, but not that harpsichord.
She got up and crossed her bedroom, and when she opened
the door the sound of the harpsichord became louder, even more
vulgar, echoing from the parlor. She went down the front stairs
and found a woman’s red shoe on the vestibule floor. The parlor
doors were closed, and when she threw them back everyone
turned and looked at her—there must have been eight or nine
people in the room, but Enoch wasn’t among them. Jonathan
Bream’s
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