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A dishevelled deofol materialised in the ward. It took the shape of an osprey, her feathers all askew. Aurienne recognised the deofol as Lorelei’s, the head of Paediatrics.

“Twenty new arrivals at the waystone,” said the deofol. “We’re drowning. Who can come?”

The six Haelan at work in the ward, each retrieved from their specialisations to lend their tacn here, looked up from their charges.

“Twenty?” gasped Aurienne.

“Stop bloody admitting them,” said Cath, the head of Trauma and Acute Care. “Someone throw something at the bird.”

“Kindly don’t harm the messenger,” said the deofol, pulling her wings in close.

“This isn’t a hospital,” said one of the Haelan from Haematology. “We simply haven’t the capacity.”

Élodie, pulled in from Virology, said, “The hospitals are full. There’s nowhere else for them to go.”

The deofol nodded. “Infected children are being rounded up and dumped at the Publish or Perish. The Wardens are helping load them up in carts to bring them in. You should see the waystone. Absolute nightmare.”

One of the Haelan from Biostatistics dragged a desperate hand across his face. “Gods. I shouldn’t be here. I should be running models on this disease. Working out transmission dynamics. Forecasting. Élodie should be in the lab, not here.”

“Keep healing,” snapped Cath, bustling past him to the next bed. “You can save thirty lives in the time it takes a physicker to save one.”

“The Heads will work out resource allocations when they’ve had a minute to breathe,” said Aurienne. “I can’t believe the virulence.”

“It makes no sense,” said Élodie, kneeling at the side of a listless, scab-ridden girl. “There were only a hundred cases a fortnight ago.”

Aurienne saw signs of her exhausted colleagues’ approaching their seith limits; their Costs were making themselves known. Élodie’s jaw was beginning to lock. Biostatistics was starting to bleed from the mouth. Haematology was hobbling as though hit by arthritis in both knees. Cath was lucky—her Cost was hair loss; it was why she kept her head shaved. As for Aurienne, her hands were chapping—a minor issue while she was fresh, but the more she used her seith, the more the wounds deepened, until they painfully exposed her metacarpals and phalanges.

“Where are the Heads?” asked a Haelan from Endocrinology, utterly out of her element among the children. “Where is our leadership?”

“Xanthe and Abercorn are at the waystone,” said the deofol, “draining their seith dry. Prendergast has gone to the king of the Danelaw to squeeze support out of him.”

Aurienne pressed her tacn to the forehead of an unconscious little boy. “I’ll go to the waystone. At the very least, I’ll be on hand for seith transfers.”

“Don’t drain yourself in the process,” called Cath.

“I won’t,” said Aurienne.

And she didn’t. No one controlled their seith like Aurienne Fairhrim.

The next few days bledinto one another as the Pox outbreak raged on. Every Haelan’s research was suspended. Platt’s Pox couldn’t be contracted by adults, but any apprentice Haelan young enough to be at risk was confined to Cygnet House. The waystone at the Publish or Perish continued its wretched deliveries; infected children were drawn up to Swanstone by the cartload.

There was no further news from the Fyren for the rest of the week. Aurienne cherished conflicting hopes. On the one hand, she wished that he would do as he had promised and bestow a desperately needed windfall upon her Order to get the Pox under control. On the other, she hoped that he had gone and died.

At five o’clock on Friday, shouts of joy echoed through Swanstone’s halls. The handful of Haelan not on rounds gathered at Charity and Donations to find the usually staid Lambert dancing about with his secretary; the Haelan Order had just received an extraordinary anonymous donation in support of the Platt’s Pox inoculation.

Élodie, the lead researcher on the inoculation, was in a state of tearyshock. She trembled in the arms of Cath, who peppered her with kisses, and then threw herself around Aurienne’s neck. The room was all delight and laughter. Aurienne managed a brittle smile as Élodie sobbed into her shoulder. The money was wonderful; its provenance was not. Speculations, diverse and fanciful, were made on the identity of the donor: One of the kings or queens of the Tiendoms? Some millionaire who had lost a child to the Pox? The gods themselves?

No one speculated that it might’ve come from a Fyren, of course. That would be too fantastical. The idea simply did not occur.

“We’re so lucky,” said Cath.

Élodie dashed away tears. “Fria’s blessings on this donor.”

“A good and generous soul,” said Lambert.

“I should like to sh-shake their hand,” sniffed Élodie.

“I should like to kiss them on the mouth,” said Cath.