A Murder at Rosamund's Gate

17

Lucy and John walked to the Old Bailey Tuesday morning, the morning of Will’s trial, with heavy hearts. A light drizzle chilled Lucy, yet she felt too numb to care. Neither said anything, but John kept his hand at Lucy’s elbow to help her along the muddy path. Adam, she knew, had gone early to be with William and to accompany him on the short walk from Newgate to the Old Bailey. Sunday’s visit with Lucas to see Will had left her more afraid than before. Will seemed so dispirited, a grayness in his very soul.

As they approached the great medieval fortress, the bells of St. Sepulchre began to toll. A small group of dirty children, laughing and chasing each other through the square, began to shriek and clap their hands.

“‘Oranges and lemons!’ say the bells of St. Clement’s,” one little boy called, running away from the group.

As they sang, Lucy found herself humming along, a distant chant from her childhood; yet she soon found their words and game to be far bleaker than what she remembered.

“‘You owe me five farthings!’ say the bells of St. Martin’s,” the rest of the children called, lining up on the other side of the square.

“‘I do not know,’ say the great bells of Bow,” the boy chanted back.

Then the children started racing toward the boy, their arms chopping through the air. “Here comes a candle to light you to bed. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head! Chip chop chip chop! The last man’s dead!!!”

Lucy turned away, slightly sickened. It was like the stories they all had heard. The bellman would bring his candle to the accursed prisoner’s cell and lead him to his execution. Not to have his head chopped off, of course, yet surely to be hanged.

Once at the Old Bailey, John found them a seat on a crowded bench. He’d been to sessions before and seemed to know what was going on. The sessions were full; Will’s was one of ten trials before this particular magistrate. Among ordinary cutpurses and forgers, Will’s trial stood out. No monstrous mothers here; no women accused of killing their babes. His was the trial the muttering crowd had pushed into the courtroom to see.

Soon the jury filed in and seated themselves in two long rows of six on either side of the judge. Lucy recognized a few tradesmen and merchants, as well as two or three nobles, clearly bored by their civic duty. As regular members of the jury, they could supplement their wages or, in the case of the nobles, cover their losses. Most judges preferred their own jurors so they would not have to explain court procedures over and over again.

“And these are supposed to be William’s peers,” John whispered in disgust to Lucy. “The king of England could be such a peer.”

Lucy nodded, twisting her hands in her lap. Will turned around then, looking both fearful and a little defiant. Lucy felt her heart leap when she saw him. His face was pale and brooding, yet he seemed to brighten when he saw her, giving her a little cheer. He raised a hand in greeting. She managed a tremulous smile, even as her stomach churned as if she had drunk too much ale.

The judge was already seated at his bench, shuffling through the papers, waiting for his clerk to finish sharpening his pen. Lucy squinted, trying to imagine him without his long white sheep’s wool wig. An image of him leaning back, relaxing over a goblet of Rhenish wine, came to mind.

“Oh, I know him!” Lucy whispered to John. “He’s come to the house; he’s a friend of the master’s!”

“The master probably had a hand in that, I suppose,” John said in equally low tones. “Will is likely to get a fair trial.”

Lucy felt a little better already. From what she knew of the judge, he was a quiet man, but he always spoke courteously to her when he came to the house and had always been friendly and kind. Now he nodded to his clerk, who called the first case.

The first two cases were dispatched quickly, a maid who had stolen her ailing mistress’s best bonnet and her purse containing five shillings, and a youngish man who had stolen a pail and a brush from the local stabler. Both were consigned to spend two hours in the stocks outside the courthouse. Lucy had little sympathy for the maid, given that she’d taken advantage of her mistress in such a low way. Her flouncing about made Lucy wonder why she did not look more distraught at her punishment. Sitting in the stocks for three minutes would surely be unbearable.

“I wonder what else she stole,” John muttered at her side. “She’s hiding something, to be sure, that one is.”

That’s it. Lucy nodded, fascinated. The maid thinks she’s put something over on the court, to take her punishment so easily. Yet as she was being led away by the bellman, the judge stopped her. “I suggest, miss, that you take a more honorable foray into your livelihood. Although I have no proof at this time, ’twould not be hard to send around the bellman, say, every day, to check with your mistress to see if anything else has gone missing. Do you understand?”

The girl nodded, more sullen now. Lucy smiled. She was glad that the young chit had not tricked the magistrate. He seemed a good man.

The other theft was quite strange. Why take a bowl and brush? she wondered. The magistrate asked the same question, not bellowing but speaking quietly to the boy, as if they were not sitting among a roomful of strangers. Lucy had to strain to hear the boy’s words.

“For my horse,” the boy whispered.

The magistrate looked puzzled. “You own a horse?” he asked. The boy seemed barely able to own his own shirt and shoes, let alone pay for the upkeep of a horse.

The boy grinned, a long, lazy grin. “Yes, of course. He’s right here now. He follows me everywhere I go.”

The crowd burst out laughing, and the boy, puzzled, grinned wider. Clearly, the poor boy’s wits were addled. He, too, was sent off with a warning and would have to sit in the nasty stocks.

Next, four women were called, and they rose at once. “Sibil Heaman, Margery Rively, Mary Jessey, and Susan Williams,” the magistrate intoned, “you stand accused of taking an unlawful conventicle at the house of Sibil Heaman of Limehouse parish, under color of exercising religion other than the king’s own. This is in defiance of the Conventicle Act of 1664. How do you plead?”

“Innocent before the Lord,” the women cried as one, their gray-woolen-clad arms flapping.

“Quakers, are you?” He sighed. “Guilty as charged. Six shillings each or another night in Newgate.”

“We obey no authority but the Lord! He shall smite the evil and bring solace to the righteous—”

“Yes, yes,” the judge said, wiping his brow. “Our recorder has faithfully described your trials and tribulations for your next chapbook. Constable, if you will?”

Next to be tried were two more pickpockets, one nervous and scared, the other grinning impudently. The judge regarded them sternly. Looking closely, Lucy recognized the younger one. Sid! He was the one she had tricked so long ago at the market.

“Sid Petry and Geoff Hicks, you have been accused of pickpocketing on at least five separate recent occasions. How do you plead?”

Sid quailed. “Guilty, Your Highness.”

There was a tittering in the crowd, as the older boy shoved him. “I meant, not guilty, most noble sire.”

The room laughed again; for a moment, the judge’s lips twitched. “Indeed, ‘sir’ is fine. I shall enter a plea of not guilty on your behalf. What about you, young man?” He directed his gaze at Geoff, who kept his cheeky smirk.

“I can think of no reason I am here,” Geoff stated blandly. “Those witnesses are all liars, and them jurors will just agree with them. They’re all liars, too.”

A group of men and women began to scream at him. The judge raised his hand.

“Guilty or not guilty?” the judge demanded.

Geoff shrugged. “There ain’t no justice for me here.”

“In that case, if you do not wish to plead or to be tried by this court, then the court will adjudge a verdict of peine forte et dure.”

The judge beckoned the constable, who stepped forward. Like him, many of the jurors looked impassive, but several looked openly stricken. Others whispered to their neighbors. “What does that mean? What shall happen?”

Geoff looked around, sensing something amiss. “What? What does that pen, pen…”

“Peine forte et dure. It means, my insolent boy, that you shall be taken back to prison and live out the final days of your life in that dirty vile place. You shall be stripped to the waist and hoisted above the ground, so that your arms can be tied to two corners of the dungeon, and your legs in the same fashion. You shall then have iron placed on your body, adding to your weight. For three days, you shall thus hang, with just a bit of barley to eat, and maybe just a spot of water, and then no food or water at all, hanging until you are dead. That, or an hour in the stocks.”

The crowd murmured again, enjoying its own shock. Lucy balled her fists in her lap. “Oh, he wouldn’t! He couldn’t! Why can’t the stupid boy just admit it?” she muttered to herself.

Sid began to sob. “Geoff, Geoff … that would hurt so much!” he cried. This plaintive wail made a few laugh and others look nervous.

The judge slowly lifted the gavel in the air, looking meaningfully at the boy. He finally seemed to catch on. “Guilty, then, I guess! The stocks ain’t so bad, compared to all that!”

“Just so,” the judge agreed. “One hour in the stocks. Constable?”

Geoff and Sid were led away to take their turn in the stocks outside. Lucy was glad that was all. He shouldn’t be pickpocketing, but no one deserved that peine punishment. Well, except the vile cur who killed Bessie, of course. That thought brought her back to the matter at hand.

Sure enough, William’s name was called next. Thankfully, the judge ordered a short meal break, reminding the jurors that dinner was available in chambers. William was given a piece of bread and a drink of water from the pail in the corner. He grimaced, yet took a sip from the ladle anyway.

While a few people went off to use the necessity, or down a quick pint at the pub around the corner, most left someone holding their spot on the bench. Everyone had come to see Will’s trial. A murder trial was far too sensational to be missed, especially when the accused was so young and handsome.

Since John was there to guard her seat, Lucy pushed her way to the front, where Will sat, dejected. She pressed a bit of gingerbread into his hand. “Eat. Please, dear.”

Neither Will nor Adam acknowledged her presence. She had apparently interrupted Adam’s final instructions. “So remember, Will, I cannot ask questions of the witnesses myself—God in heaven, how I wish I could!—but do not let a witness retire until we have finished. When I nod, all right?”

Will just stared ahead, inclining his head slightly to show that he heard.

Adam continued. “It’s important! ’Tis very difficult to call a witness again. The judge will not like it, so we must be careful to get all the evidence necessary on the record. We must lay a careful foundation. Do you understand me?” He shook Will’s shoulder. “Will?”

Will nodded, but Lucy doubted he really understood very much at all. He was on trial for his life and had entered a mad daze. A bell rang somewhere, sending the spectators eagerly back to their seats. The show was about to start. Lucy kissed Will’s cheek, rough with the day’s stubble despite that morning’s required wash and a shave.

Her kiss seemed to revive him, help him focus. “Mother?” he asked. “Did she—?”

Helplessly, Lucy could only shake her head. She had received a note just that morning, written by one of her mother’s neighbors, saying that their mother would not be attending Will’s trial. She was simply too overwrought by the notion that her son could stand trial for murder. Dear Will, Trust in the will of God. His Light shall prevail. Your Loving Mother, Theresa Campion. That was all the note said. Furious, Lucy had ripped the letter to shreds.

“Be strong, brother,” she whispered. She didn’t know if he heard, but at least his face seemed less pale.

* * *

The next hour was one of the worst in Lucy’s life. The little bit of joviality and humor that had appeared in the first half of the assizes had dissipated. The murder of a young woman, even if she was just a servant, was a serious and grim matter indeed. Even the jurors who had looked so bored before sat up, listening intently, when the case was called.

Lucy craned her head all around. The orange seller, Maggie Potts, was nowhere to be seen, which, truth be told, didn’t surprise her all that much. Evidently, when she had not heard from Lucy, she had decided not to present herself to the court.

A pang of guilt and regret nagged at Lucy. Should she have bought her testimony? Principles don’t mean all that much when one’s brother stands facing Old Jack’s noose.

* * *

Constable Duncan stood up to serve as prosecutor, since he was the king’s man called when Bessie’s body was first found. Pulling out a piece of paper, he read slowly. “On March 31 in the Year of our Lord 1665, Elizabeth Ann Campbell, known as Bessie to her friends, late servant at the good Magistrate Hargrave’s household, him of the King’s Bench, was done found murdered—”

Here a wail broke out. For the first time, Lucy saw Bessie’s mother and sister huddled at the bench. They had not been there earlier. Who had cried out, Lucy did not know.

“—found murdered,” Duncan continued impassively, “stabbed five times in the abdomen and chest.”

Quickly presenting the case, Duncan explained how William and Bessie had become biblically familiar, “as was fine and proper since they were courting.” However, after Bessie had been with another man and found herself with child—surprisingly, Del Gado was not named—William discarded her. Because she would not cease seeking him out, he had sent her a letter, asking her to meet him in the field, where he “did plan to seduce and murder her, so as to silence her and the babe once and for all, in manner most foul.”

As he spoke, Lucy watched the judge and jury consult the penny chapbooks describing Bessie’s death and nod as the details of the story were confirmed. The jurors occasionally glanced at William, judging him, gauging his reaction, deciding the merit and value of his life. Her brother stared stonily before him.

The judge then called the physician to the stand, explaining, “Though not common practice, the learned members of the court, my fellow judges, have recently decreed that the physician who tended to a deceased, particularly one so obviously the victim of foul mischief, should be called to give true and honest testimony about what he found.”

The physician, Larimer, took the stand and made quick work of describing the state of Bessie’s body: that she had been stabbed by a man, until she was indeed dead, with some wounds to her hands as if she had tried to stop the blows. “The first strike seems to have been to her abdomen, forceful, but not the death blow. If I were to guess, he started coolly with some precision, then grew in anger or passion. He must have been stirred by bloodlust. Some men’s blood does boil that way.” Upon a more complete examination, he then found her with child. “A vile beast, that man was,” he finished, staring at Will.

The crowd murmured in agreement. Lucy saw several jurors nod their heads as well. This was not good.

Will sat motionless. Adam nudged him, gently at first, and then harder when he failed to move. “Oh, right.” William gulped. “Do you know, for sure, that it had to have been a man who inflicted those wounds upon”—here he stumbled over Bessie’s name—“the girl?”

The physician stroked his beard. “To my mind, ’twas too violent an act to have been wrought by a mere girl. To betray her own sex in such a way! However, I have seen enough criminal travesties in my time to say that such a thing, though thoroughly unnatural and unbefitting the gentler sex, could have transpired. Yes, it might well have been a woman. Although I think that unlikely.”

The jury nodded again. Other witnesses were called, including several tavern customers who detailed how William had been angry that day, and how they had seen the couple arguing early that afternoon. They saw him shake her until “her head did near shake off.” Even more damning were the witnesses who had been at the pub later in the day. They all claimed that Will said he was out for Bessie’s blood.

Throughout all the testimony, a great angry red flush colored Will’s face and neck. Adam appeared to be taking notes. Once or twice, Lucy saw Adam press Will’s arm, warning him to be careful with the words he spoke, so as not to incriminate himself before the judge and jury. Dutifully, with each witness, William posed the questions that Adam whispered to him, showing holes in each person’s testimony.

When a woman stood up and claimed that Bessie’s finger had appeared to point to Will, Adam tersely had Will read the original pamphlet, where that same woman claimed the finger had pointed to the magistrate’s son. Lucy could not believe that such an unnatural story could be used as evidence, yet it was duly entered into the court record, with the notation that the woman had switched her story.

Finally, Richard Cuthbert’s name was called. The onlookers craned their necks and began to whisper, knowing that he was the key witness. He was the one who heard Will say that he would kill Bessie with his own hands. He was the one they were waiting for, to condemn Will to his death.

Richard sat down, sullen and cocky. The constable asked him to explain what had happened the night of the murder. “Me and him got into a bit of a fight,” he said, nodding shortly at William.

“What were you and the accused fighting about?”

Richard grinned, smacking his lips. “I told him that I’d seen some pictures of the git he’d been keeping company with.”

“Is that when he struck you?” the constable asked.

Richard scowled. “No, it was what I said about the other one,” he muttered, losing his bravado.

“The other one?” Duncan asked. The conversation was clearly not going as he expected.

“Yeah. I made another comment about the other girl I’d seen him with. Quite a fine one. Didn’t know she was his sister.”

Lucy felt her face flush as a few people turned to look at her. She recognized some of her neighbors, their faces lit up by this tidbit. Gossipy old hags.

The judge leaned toward Richard, with a warning in his own voice. “Do you mean to say, young man, that you said something lewd about the defendant’s sister? Lucy? A lass that I know for myself to be a decent good girl? And that’s when the defendant hit you? In defense of his sister’s good name?”

“Yeah,” Richard muttered again. Seeing the disappointment on her neighbors’ faces, Lucy couldn’t help feeling smug about being in the judge’s favor.

“So,” Duncan continued, trying to bring the questioning back on track, “that’s when you got into the fight. What did he say to you afterward?”

“Nothing.”

The constable gestured impatiently. He pulled out a flimsy piece of paper. “Do you recall stating to me that the defendant had said, “‘I’m going to kill her, Bessie. Yeah, I’m going to murder that lying whore’?”

“No, I don’t remember saying that.”

William looked at Adam in surprise. Adam only lifted one eyebrow, his eyes steady on the liveryman.

The judge looked at Richard accusingly. “Do not mock this court of law, young man. Did you hear the defendant say that or not?”

“No. I didn’t hear him say it.”

The constable wiped his sweaty brow with his cap. “Richard Cuthbert,” he said sternly. “Did you or did you not see the defendant covered in blood later that evening?”

“Yes, I did,” Richard agreed.

The crowd looked eager. Now they were getting somewhere interesting. The constable smiled. “And where was that?”

Richard was silent.

“Where did you see the defendant?” the judge asked him. “Young man, I will hold you in contempt of court if you do not answer the question.”

Sullenly, Richard replied, “I saw him in my stable.”

“Your what? Your stable? What could you mean?” Duncan shouted. With a quick look at the judge, who was frowning, he said, “Beg pardon, Your Honor. That’s not what the witness told me!”

Opening the paper again, Duncan read loudly, “‘And then, that night, not a few hours later, I did see William, the blackguard, had fulfilled his promise, with blood all about his body, blood I knew had come from his unfaithful mistress, who to my mind he must have killed in the field near mine, that field they do oft call Rosamund’s Gate, where lovers do die.’ Do you deny seeing this?”

“I did not see this,” came Richard’s low reply.

“What, pray heaven,” Adam said, rising to his feet, “was William doing in your stable?”

The magistrate ignored Adam’s breach and looked expectantly at the man squirming in the witness chair.

Richard hesitated. “He was tied up.”

The crowd gasped. Adam continued. “And how did he come to be tied up in your stable?”

“I wanted to teach him a lesson. My men,” Richard said, looking somewhat sheepish, “tied him up. He came to me, drunk and swinging, ranting about that wench Bessie. I knocked him out and tied him up and then left.” He smirked then at Adam. “I had other things to attend to. A few hours after sunrise, we untied him and threw him in a ditch.”

The crowd began to buzz, and the judge held up his hand. He looked at Richard sternly. “Are you saying that the defendant was tied up from the time he came to you until the next morning? When he was found, with bloody hands, in a ditch?”

“I guess he didn’t recollect what happened after I knocked him out,” Richard muttered, both defiant and a little ashamed. “I was just funning with him. I untied his hands before we left him. Didn’t want him to rot there. I sure as hell didn’t expect him to swing for the girl’s murder. I’ve no wish to have a dead man swinging in my thoughts all the time. Burt and Joe, they’ll tell you it’s true.”

The constable, seeing the case slip away from him, spoke directly to the judge. “The defendant could still have killed her and crawled back—”

“Kill her in broad morning light? Then go back to that very same ditch, to be found by that tinker on his way to the market?” Adam asked, the disbelief clear in his tone.

The magistrate cocked his head. “Indeed, sounds far-fetched, but I must consider it—. What was that?” He turned to Richard, who was now looking more shamefaced.

“Saw that tinker,” Richard muttered.

“How’s that?” Adam and the magistrate asked simultaneously.

“After me and my mates unbound him, we saw that tinker on the road. I’ve done business with him before. I’m in livery for the Embrys. Sometimes they need something hammered out for the carriages and whatnot. So not more than ten minutes could have passed since we left him, when the tinker found him.”

The magistrate sighed. Lucy and John, and the rest of the courtroom, leaned forward.

The magistrate fingered his mallet. “As much as I hate to see the murder of a young lass go unresolved, I should hate far more to see an innocent man be wrongly accused and hanged.”

Lucy held her breath. The magistrate then said the words she could scarcely have dreamed he would utter. “The court thereby declares the defendant, William Campion, acquitted of all charges and set free.”

The crowd roared in approval. Londoners were a good-natured group; they were equally glad to see a man justly acquitted as to be sent to the gallows. The magistrate banged on his desk.

“Master Campion, it is in your right to have the court charge Richard Cuthbert with giving false testimony and assaulting you. If you choose to press charges, Richard will pass not less than three nights in jail, spending two hours each day in the stocks.”

Richard grimaced. William hesitated, then swiveled to look at Lucy. She shook her head. No need to renew Richard’s rancor against them.

William seemed to understand. Reaching for Lucy’s hand, he said firmly, “No, Your Honor. I should just like to put all this behind me.”

* * *

On the way out, Lucy held Will’s arm tight, sobbing with relief, the crowd around them still cheering.

A young lad darted up and pumped Will’s arm. “I never thought you did it!”

Will managed a weak smile. Adam and John flanked them both, pushing their way through the crowd. Within moments, the crowd that had gathered outside the Newgate prison door had sought other grisly entertainment.

As they passed, Lucy heard a bookseller selling chapbooks reading off another man’s last dying speech. A hanged man would have his “true confession” read before he was hanged; whether it was true or not mattered little. “He was very willing to die!” the bookseller cried out, trying to be heard over the growing crowd. He was a small man, with greasy hair and ill-fitting clothes. He looked tired but was working hard to earn a few pennies. “He did not live well, but his soul shall find redemption in death.”

“Aw, give us the good stuff!” one man called. The crowd murmured in agreement. Penitence was fine and good, and showed that justice prevailed, but everyone wanted to hear the more sensational details. They wanted to know they were right when watching the man die.

Adam had his hand on her back then and almost seemed to be pushing her. The ground outside the prison was rocky and rough, and she almost tripped. She looked up at him indignantly, about to say something, when she realized what he was trying to keep her from seeing.

A gallows had been erected at Tyburn, and there a man was swinging, still alive. His body was rigid, his face was blackened, and his head hung at a queer angle. He bobbed about. “Cut him down!” the crowd began to cheer, while others called with equal fervor, “Rack him back up!”

The executioner obliged both calls, cutting the condemned man down and putting another noose around his neck.

Lucy didn’t even know she was fainting until the ground rushed up to her. She felt strong arms swoop her up and carry her. When she opened her eyes, great tree branches waved gently above, and long grasses tickled her cheek. She could hear little of the hubbub and fuss of the town, and the executioner’s scaffold was nowhere in sight. Adam and William were talking in low tones. John was chewing on a stalk of grass, listening.

Seeing that she had woken up, William mustered a grin, a semblance of his cocky self. Yet he still looked wan and pale. “All right now, sister? John and Adam carried you near a quarter of a mile to get you away from that ungodly scene.”

“That man!” She gulped as the horrible image of the man’s bulging eyes and blackened tongue came to her. “It could have been—”

“Aye, lass.” John cut her off. “But your brother, he’s fine. Thanks to Master Adam here.”

Adam shrugged but still looked ashen from the trial. It seemed to have taken a lot out of him. “Let us say no more of it,” he said, stretching out his long legs. “Let us just breathe in this good clean air.”

And not think of the rotting stench of Newgate or the stifling tension of the courtroom. Lucy still could not fathom what had nearly happened. “Richard? What about him?” she asked. “What could have possessed him to recant? He actually seemed … penitent?”

Adam looked at the palms of his hands. “I think he may have had, how shall I say this, a little Friendly persuasion?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lucy asked.

“A week ago, I heard tell that Richard had been thrown in jail for a bout of public drunkenness. It was not too hard to grease a few hands to get the jailers to put him in a cell with three Friends.”

John guffawed. “The Quakers worked him over!”

Adam sighed. “Something like that. Except, of course, with words, not fists. I’ve no doubt that enough talk about conscience and hell will make even a hardened criminal confront his ways. Richard, for all his faults”—here he looked significantly at Lucy—“is not an evil man. Let us just thank God that he found his conscience before it was too late for Will.”

No one needed to say anything, but the enormity of what had almost happened was still overwhelming. In the distance, she heard the church bells toll two o’clock. For a moment, Lucy watched a bird making languid circles above them. Was it a hawk? No matter; at this distance, it was beautiful and free and as far removed from earthly desires and hatreds as Lucy could ever wish to be. She did not realize that tears were slipping down her cheeks until she felt a handkerchief pressed into her hand. Gratefully, she looked at Adam, but he was frowning, watching a distant figure stumble toward them.

“What’s this?” John asked.

Lucy squinted. It was a woman, running, clutching her skirts. Something was clearly amiss. The woman puffed heavily toward them where they stood on the hill, her gray hair falling messily from her cap. Judging from her dress, she was probably a merchant’s wife. The hill proved overmuch for her, and with a hand to her chest, she staggered a bit before falling to her knees.

Instantly, their small group was on their feet, racing toward her.

Adam, a half step behind, called to the woman, his voice imperious. “Woman! What is wrong?”

“Can we help?” Lucy asked at the same time.

The woman tried to catch her breath. “It’s happened,” she said, panting heavily. The others waited impatiently. She seemed unable to speak, her eyes deeply distressed.

“What? What’s happened?” Will asked, shifting his feet.

The woman threw up her hands. Her next words chilled Lucy to her very bones. “The plague,” she said helplessly. “It’s reached the west side.”