The influx of people into Argenton had brought more than just labor and growth; it had brought the inevitable shadow of the crowded world. While the brick grid and the waste trenches had mitigated the worst of the filth, the sheer density of a thousand souls living in close quarters was a biological experiment Thomas had hoped to delay.
The first warning came not from the factory, but from the schoolhouse.
Thomas was working with Elias on a new trade map when Diccon burst into the solar. The boy's face was flushed, but not with excitement. He looked genuinely frightened.
"My lord, it is the girl, Elspeth," Diccon said, his breath hitching. "She was fine at the morning tally, but now... she is burning. And she has the spots."
Thomas felt a cold pit form in his stomach. He didn't ask for a description. He stood up, grabbed his cloak, and looked at Elias. "Stay here. Do not go near the school or the workers' quarters."
By the time Thomas reached the infirmary—a clean, white-washed room near the barn—the air already felt heavy. Elspeth was six years old, the daughter of one of the new brick-masons. She lay on a straw pallet, her skin a mottled canvas of small, red eruptions. Her fever was a physical heat radiating from her small frame.
Thomas knelt beside her, his hand reaching for his pocket. He pulled out the phone. It was at 58% charge. He opened a cached medical database and typed in the symptoms.
The results were a terrifying list of medieval killers: measles, scarlet fever, or the early stages of smallpox. Given the pattern of the rash, the database leaned toward measles. In the 21st century, it was a manageable childhood illness. In the 12th century, it was a harvester of souls.
"Get everyone out," Thomas commanded the nurse, a village woman he had trained in basic sanitation. "Isolate the schoolhouse. No one goes in, and no one comes out. And I want every mother in the village to check their children's skin. Now."
Victoria appeared in the doorway, a linen cloth pressed over her mouth and nose. She had learned enough from Thomas's pamphlets to fear the invisible. "If it is the red death, Thomas, the Guilds will flee. The factory will stop. They will say the machines have cursed the children."
"It's not a curse, it's a virus," Thomas said, mostly to himself. "We need to break the chain of transmission. And we need to stabilize the ones who are already sick."
He looked at the phone. He had information on vaccines, but he didn't have the lab equipment to create them safely. He had information on antibiotics, but measles was viral—penicillin wouldn't touch it. He needed the basics: hydration, vitamin A, and strict quarantine.
He began to type a new broadside for the press. He didn't use the word 'virus.' He used the language they understood.
The Red Fever is a thief of breath. It travels on the air and the touch. To save your kin, you must sit in the silence of your own home. Do not gather at the well. Do not gather at the tavern.
"Victoria," Thomas said, standing up. "We need the silver. Not for trade, but for food. We are going to shut down the factory and the kiln. We will pay every family their full scrip to stay in their homes for two weeks. We provide the grain and the water to their doorsteps."
Victoria stared at him. "You would stop the wheels? The Archbishop's shipment is due in ten days. If we miss it, the contract is broken."
"If we don't stop the wheels, there won't be anyone left to run them," Thomas said. "The Archbishop can wait. The fever won't."
He felt the phone vibrate. A message from the future, reaching through the chaos.
Mom: Sent a photo.
It was a picture of a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a box of tissues on his bedside table from a flu he'd had years ago.
Mom: Thinking of the time you had that nasty bug in high school. I hated seeing you so sick. I'm glad you're a big, healthy guy now. Take care of yourself, Tom.
Thomas looked at the screen, then at the shivering girl on the pallet. He felt a surge of defiant anger. He wasn't just a big, healthy guy; he was an architect with the blueprints for survival.
"Diccon!" Thomas shouted. "To the press! We have a new law to print. And it's the only one that matters today."
As the sun set over New Zaleski, the rhythmic thud of the looms was replaced by a strange, heavy silence. The "Captured Stars" were extinguished one by one as families retreated into their homes.
Thomas stood in the center of the empty courtyard, the dead silence of the factory echoing in his ears. He was fighting a war against an enemy he couldn't see, with weapons made of paper and silver.
The first test of his city wasn't going to be its wealth or its iron, but its ability to survive the breath of the past.