The quarantine had turned Argenton into a ghost of its former self. The silence was absolute, broken only by the occasional cry of a hungry child or the heavy, rhythmic clatter of the supply wagons. Thomas's scrip system was being pushed to its limit; he was essentially paying the entire population to do nothing but survive.
Thomas sat in the solar, his eyes burning from lack of sleep. He had spent the last forty-eight hours reviewing every scrap of medical data on the phone. The device was his only anchor to a world that had mastered the invisible.
Battery: 62%
"Three more deaths in the lower grid," Victoria said, stepping into the room. She looked exhausted, her usual sharp composure softened by the grim reality of the reports. "Two children and the old weaver, Hobert. The people are staying in their homes, but the fear is beginning to rot their resolve. They see the wagons coming with grain, but they do not see the end of the fever."
"The cycle for measles is roughly two weeks," Thomas said, rubbing his face. "We are on day nine. If we can hold the line for five more days, the new cases will stop appearing. But the secondary infections—the pneumonia—that is what is killing the older ones."
"And the Archbishop's men?" Victoria asked. "They are at the gates. They do not care about the 'thief of breath.' They care about the fact that the looms have stopped and the cloth is not moving."
Thomas stood up and walked to the window. Below, at the heavy iron-reinforced gates of Argenton, he could see a small troop of horsemen in the purple and gold livery of the See. They were staying well back, wary of the rumors of plague, but their presence was a ticking clock.
"Tell them the Lord of the Manor is under a holy vow of silence and fasting to cleanse the valley," Thomas said. "And tell them that if they cross the line of salt we've laid at the gate, they will be responsible for bringing the fever back to the Archbishop's own palace."
"They won't believe a vow," Victoria said.
"They will believe the threat of infection," Thomas countered. "Nobody wants to be the man who brought a harvester of souls to the capital."
He turned back to the phone. He had been drafting a set of "Sanitary Laws" to be printed once the quarantine lifted. He needed Argenton to be the first city in history with a permanent Board of Health. He was essentially building the infrastructure of the 19th century into the 12th.
Suddenly, a notification pinged. It wasn't a message. It was a calendar reminder he'd set years ago.
Sarah's Graduation - 2:00 PM
Thomas stared at the screen. In his other life, in the world that was still 800 years away, Sarah was walking across a stage right now. She was wearing a black robe, receiving a degree, and looking into a crowd for a face she would never find.
The contrast was a physical ache. Here he was, surrounded by the smell of boiling vinegar and the threat of a medieval epidemic, while a version of his life was celebrating a milestone of education.
"Thomas?" Victoria asked, seeing him freeze.
He turned the screen toward her. She saw the picture attached to the reminder—a photo of Sarah laughing in a coffee shop.
"She is at her schooling," Thomas whispered. "Today is her day of honor."
Victoria looked at the photo, then at Thomas. She reached out and touched his hand, her fingers surprisingly warm. "Then we shall honor her here. We will save the children of this valley so they might have their own day of schooling. Your Sarah would want that, would she not?"
Thomas nodded, a lump forming in his throat. "She would. She always said the best way to remember someone was to do the work they valued."
"Then do the work," Victoria said.
Thomas tucked the phone away. He looked at the medical notes he'd taken. He needed to prepare a massive batch of Vitamin A-rich broth for the recovering children. He needed to coordinate the next round of waste-trench lime treatments.
"Tell Wat to double the lime production," Thomas commanded. "And tell Elias to start mapping the recovery. I want to know exactly which houses are clear. We're not just surviving this, Victoria. We're going to prove that logic is a stronger shield than prayer."
As the sun set over the silent, fearful streets of Argenton, the Architect went back to work. He was no longer just building walls and gears; he was building a wall against death itself, fueled by the memory of a girl in a black robe and a future he was determined to earn.
The fever had taken its tithe, but the city was still standing.