“I am,” the officer said. He didn’t seem all that eager to own up to it.
“Glad to hear that the king is takin’ an interest in our health and hygiene,” Fletcher said.
The lieutenant smiled—at least his lips did, but the rest of his face was blank as any stone wall. “Good day,” he said, and walked out of the shop.
When Jenna was sure he was gone, she crossed to where she could read the whole notice.
Due to a recent outbreak of plague among soldiers of His Majesty’s army, and for protection of the citizens of Delphi, the ministry has ordered the following:
Item One: The gates to the city have been closed and will remain closed until the outbreak has been contained. All travelers and citizens leaving the city will be required to show proof of medical treatment prior to departure. All permissions will be issued by Lieutenant Destin Karn, Officer of the Crown.
Item Two: Because the plague is thought to be carried by fleas that dwell in ladies’ hair, all female citizens of Delphi, ages twelve and up, are hereby ordered to report to hygiene stations that have been set up throughout the city. Their hair will be shorn, washed with a medical soap, and examined for vermin. Each woman so treated will be affixed with silver earrings to signify that she has complied.
Item Three: Any man with hair longer than four inches will be similarly treated.
Item Four: Treatments are to commence immediately and are to be completed before the Solstice holiday.
Item Five: Any woman in the city who has not completed treatment by then will be subject to fines and imprisonment.
“Scummer,” Jenna muttered. “Plague? You know anybody that’s got the plague?”
“Nah,” Fletcher growled. “They’re looking for somethin’ or someone. Just don’t know what. Now what you got for me, Riley?”
Jenna leaned across the counter, the powder bag between them. “How long will it take to fix this?” she said loudly. Then whispered, “There’s two mudback wagons coming up the South Road day after tomorrow. About suppertime.”
“Cargo?” Fletcher’s voice was terse.
“Powder, weapons, dry goods,” Jenna murmured. “Heard two soldiers talking about it in the Mug and Mutton earlier today.”
“I don’t know that this is worth fixin’,” Fletcher said, “but if you insist, I’d say in a week.”
“A week?”
“D’you want me to write it up or not?”
“Never mind,” Jenna grumbled, picked up the sack, and turned to go. Message delivered. That wagon would never reach headquarters.
“You be careful now, you hear?” Fletcher called after her.
He always said that when she went out the door.
All the way back to the Lady of Grace, Jenna turned over what had happened in the harness shop. At first, she’d just been annoyed at this new intrusion into daily life in Delphi. But now she fingered the magemark on the back of her neck and wondered: after all these years, could somebody be looking for her?
As soon as the idea surfaced, Jenna dismissed it. You’ve got to stop listening to your da’s stories, she thought. There’s no need for made-up monsters. We have enough of those in real life.
She had no magical destiny, there was only the here and now. She’d learned that when Riley died.
That night, she bathed and washed her hair, despite the blizzard raging outside. She scrubbed at the back of her neck, like she always did, as if she could wash the magemark off. But all that came off was coal dust.
Her room up under the eaves was poorly insulated, and the wind came through sometimes as if the walls weren’t even there. A small stove squatted in one corner of the room, with a pipe through the roof to carry away the smoke. It took the chill off, and allowed her to heat water for tea or bathing. She always tried to end the day clean, and sleep clean. Clean once in a day would have to be enough in Delphi.
Once a day she could leave off the various roles she played all day long—mine blaster, saboteur, spy—and be herself. Whoever that was. It was getting hard to remember. She never saw the girl she really was reflected in someone else’s eyes. That girl had disappeared a long time ago.
When Jenna finished with her hair, she lifted the teapot from the stove and poured hot water over the leaves loose in the cup. She never needed a fistful of rags to protect her hands when she stoked the stove, moved pots around, or detonated a charge. Her da said that when she was little she’d pull buns out of the oven with her bare hands and scrape cookies off a hot pan.
Now she curled into a chair and sat, staring out at nothing, the warm cup between her hands. It was a fine china cup; she could trace the designs of blown roses on it. It had belonged to her mother, the woman who mothered her in every way except by blood. Jenna always used the same cup, rinsing it out carefully each night.