“I am sent by Sir Thomas More!” Rose called, pressing her face close enough to the wood to get a splinter in her nose.
The door swung open so fast that Rose stumbled inside. A man grabbed her and dragged her across the threshold before slamming the door.
“Why did you yell that name? Do you want to die today?”
His face was badly pocked. Rose wondered how sick he had been; he was lucky to have survived, but no one with these scars ever seemed grateful. His hair was longer than most men’s and a dirty orange colour. It clung to his damp neck even though winter braced the house on all sides. His eyes looked hung, not set, in his face, with watery bags drooping below. She handed him the bag and waited.
His home was not well lit, she noticed, with a few tallow rushlights out and a fire that made the room thick with smoke. The room she was in merely had a table and a simple hearth. A short flight of stairs was on her left, to a visible larger room above, and above that, an even larger dwelling. It was an odd feeling to be at the small center below the home. Above must be where he and his family slept. No one was stirring.
On the wall next to the table, hanging, were the implements of his job: a heavy club, shackles, and one good pair of boots. On the table covered with green bazik cloth was a heavy book, laid open so that as she sat, she could see it contained names and sums—probably a tax record. The sheriff always collected these, which was why he often got into scrapes and took folks off to the jails. He was in charge of law and order, and the law of the land was gold.
He had opened the bag and removed the letter, breaking the seal with a long thumbnail.
“There’s a lot of money in here,” he said at last.
Rose nodded, not sure what to say. His words were an accusation.
“Do you know what this says?” he asked, waving the letter at her.
“No.”
He grunted. “Go home before night falls. The heretics and fools of the new learning have unleashed hell here. A fine thing like you will not last a minute on the street.”
I raced down the hall, the darkness of night real and alive, peering in at me through the windows. An overhead bulb popped and burned out, letting the shadows in, stealing closer to me as I ran. I tried to outrun them, but bulbs were popping and burning out, little showers of sparks chasing me down the hall. The shadows closed in from behind, cold and pulsing, pushed by a wind that growled with pleasure. I could hear Mariskka cursing and calling out for a night guard to bring her a flashlight so she could check on the patients.
Crazy Betty was sleeping when I burst through her door. She grunted and rolled over as I ran to her side, shaking her awake.
She sat up and slapped me. Fluffing her pillow, she tried to return to her sleep.
“Cr—, Betty,” I stammered, “I need your help.”
“Do I know you?” she asked, smushing her face into the pillow.
“Not exactly. I’m Bridget, from the hospice wing.”
She lifted her head a bit to look at me. “You’re dying?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Bad day for you,” she said. “I can’t sell you crazy and that’s all I got, honey.”
“No, Betty, I was going to get into a research study, but I didn’t, and a man said you knew the story.”
She bolted up. “What did this man look like?”
“Uh, big, a black man, wears an earring in his ear, and sunglasses, even inside.”
“Looks like you’re already ate up with crazy. I never seen the guy.”
“Betty!” I gave her a look to scald her awake.
“All right, I’ll tell, on one condition. I want to be free of pills and booze. I never want to crave them again. Never want to have even the slightest need for them. You do that for me, and I’ll tell what I saw.”
“How could I promise that? I can’t fix you.”
“I already knowed that. I wasn’t even talking to you.” She rolled her eyes at an empty corner of the room. “You had a boyfriend. He knew you couldn’t help being what you are, any more than I can help what I am. He enrolled you in a study, and they were having real good success curing your kind of cancer. But someone stopped him from taking you outta here. Someone who craves, like us. You were so proud of who you were, and what you had, that you couldn’t smell your own greed anymore, and when it rolled off her breath, you couldn’t smell hers, either. So Mariskka made sure you was gonna die. And she’s gonna get really rich. But it won’t stop the craving.”
She slapped me again. “Mariskka still had a chance for a better life! You poisoned her good now.”
I took a breath, trying to process what she was saying, but she cut me off.
“Don’t forget: we have a bargain.”
Mariskka’s flashlight swept the room. Betty’s window was larger, and there was enough light from the lamps outside that we could see her face contort with anger to see us together.
“Back to bed, ladies. We need our beauty rest.”