The sky peeked into the window, turning from the pale blue of the bright day, to an unnatural forest green. Mela swore, turning her back to the infirmary overcrowded with potential corpses.
Her assistant lingered in the aisle, carrying a bucket of vomit and mumbling about the short supply of beds. “With all these children moaning about, we had to put the babies on the floor. And the elderly—well, time was coming for them one way or another, right?” She looked up to find Mela frozen, and frowned deeply. “What is it now?”
“The spirits are talking.”
Ratu dropped the bucket on the ground, allowing little discolored chunks to splatter onto the hem of her dress. “Well, must we listen? After all they’ve done?”
“They might mean to give us a cure.”
“Or they’re doing what they always do: provoking us.”