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H e hid the tremble in his fingers. “Let’s get you home.” There was an attempt at a smile, but he knew she saw through it. Too much was in his mind, his soul.

Poetry wasn’t in life; it was in what we’ve made of the past, lending it romanticism instead of watching it burn and lie in the ashes. He shouldn’t have brought her into this, this girl made up of poetry and bones, flowers and viscera, everything beautiful and meaningful in life.

Atta retrieved her sachel, and they quietly drove back toward Dublin proper. It was comfortable with her. The silence always had been—both of them lost to their thoughts. God knew they had so many of them, all of the time, like a dark sea they could never get their heads above. In a way, he thought that might have been what first drew him to her. Like a moth to flame. He was so close now he could feel the heat of it, but it wasn’t him that he was worried about getting burned.

took the long way, the tumultuous waves of his thoughts pulling him toward the sea without him realising it until they were nearing the coast. The sun had fully set when he pulled into a car park overlooking the harbour, and Atta finally looked at him.

“Where are we?”

“Dun Laoghaire. The stand here has excellent fish and chips.” She followed his line of sight to a little ramshackle hut of a place that had stood the test of time. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I could eat.” Her smile was small, but it tugged at his heart.

Huddled in their coats against the sea breeze, he ordered two baskets and two Guinness.

“What’s happening out on the beach?” asked the man who took their order.

“Oy, it’s Samhain,” the man yelled over the wind and raucous people flooding the shoreline. “Said they want to do a big bonfire and the whole gambit.”

took their drinks and met Atta at the picnic table she’d found sheltered by a large rock. She thanked him but kept her eyes on the water. “It’s Halloween,” she said. “I almost forgot.”

“They’re about to light a bonfire out there.”

A few bites into their fish, the fire roared to life, and all the crowd with it, donning their masks and passing around beer and food.

“Ah,” Atta said on a sigh. “That’s better.”

Her face was lit in a warm glow. “The fire or the food?”

“Both.” She smiled. “The company isn’t half bad either.”

“Atta, listen?—”

But she held up a hand. “No. I don’t want to hear your regrets about letting me in, or how this is dangerous or we’re too close to the sun.”

“I’m not?—”

“That’s what you’re going to say, isn’t it? Something along those lines? Because you might be brooding and mysterious to the rest of the world, but not to me. Not anymore. And this is bigger than us. Do you really think revolutions don’t begin with one person? One act? Do you really think change can’t be accomplished by two people? According to some, one man saved the entire world, past, present, and future. According to some, the Storming of the Bastille began the French Revolution, Shakespeare changed the English language, and the Beetles altered music irrevocably. Things would be different if people weren’t so fucking scared all the time but let their fear propel them instead of paralyse them.”

stared at her, her hair blowing in the wind and making her look like an apparition. A dark faerie queen. Jesus Christ . He was falling in love with her.

“ Well ,” she pressed with no small amount of sass, “what do you have to say now?”

“What do you propose we do first, All-Knowing One?”

She scowled at him but relaxed her shoulders. “We need a live patient.”

“Atta—”

“Stop it. Stop that . Stop trying to talk me out of things.”

“Would you let me finish a goddamn sentence at least?”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms, turning her chin away, and he tried to remain irritated with her, but couldn’t with the way she looked in his coat.

“That might take some time. We know the signs of the Plague, but not until it’s too late.”

Atta shivered, and he took off his coat, wrapping it around her shoulders until she was drowning in two coats too large for her. “Let’s get closer to the fire,” he suggested.

“Too many people. Can we just head back?”

felt a pang of disappointment. He knew it was cold and late, but he wasn’t ready to say goodnight yet. “Sure.”

Back in the Capri, he blasted the heater until she stopped shivering, and she went back to their conversation. “I know the signs are typical until it’s too late, but what if we can speak with an Infected person before they pass? Take notes. Try something to save them?”

gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I do have notes I took in my mother’s last days, and I can compile all my notes from research at Achilles House as well. If we look at all that with what I’ve written studying in the hawthorn atrium and your research. . .”

“We could be well on our way to fitting the pieces together. But I still think we need a live patient.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He pulled into the car park. Atta reached for the door handle and offered him a wry smile. “You don’t have to watch me walk in. I don’t think anyone else has plans to kidnap me but you.”

snorted. “And yet that eases none of my worries for your safety. Oh.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a flick knife and handed it to her. “Here. In case that bastard Dohmnall comes near you again.”

“These are illegal,” she said, but took it nonetheless.

“So is raping women, but the fuckers still try it.”

She frowned at him but slid it into her—his—jacket pocket. “Goodnight, .”

“Sweet dreams, Atta.”