"The town has really changed its looks," Victoria said, leaning toward the carriage window, as though the glass itself might reveal a different era.
I followed her gaze. New buildings rose beside old ones like mismatched teeth—fresh timber pressed against stone still bearing scorch marks and cracks. Aid had arrived, but it hadn't blended. It sat on the town like a borrowed coat: serviceable, ill-fitting.
I inhaled slowly.
That was when the horses screamed.
"Neigh—!"
The carriage lurched. Wood groaned as the coach swayed, and instinct pulled me forward before thought caught up.
"What's happening?" I asked, already stepping down. Victoria was beside me.
The road ahead had collapsed into chaos. One horse reared, eyes rolling; the other stamped and snorted, nostrils flaring. And there—directly before them—a child lay crumpled on the ground, limbs thin as kindling.
"Sorry, miss!" the coachman shouted, fighting the reins. "They came out of nowhere!"
Victoria was already kneeling, hands steady as she helped the child sit up.
"Are you hurt?"
The child shook their head, then folded into a cough so violent it seemed to scrape their chest raw.
"Mother—" they rasped. "My mother, she's—"
Their hand trembled as they lifted a small cloth bag.
"What's this?" Victoria asked, taking it.
"Medicine," I said, stepping closer.
The smell reached me then—bitter herbs, improperly dried, mixed with something sour. Poorly prepared. Poorly stored.
The child's skin burned beneath my fingers.
"What do we do?" Victoria asked, eyes fixed on the child's face—too pale, too sharp.
"Where do you live?" I asked. "Your mother—where is she?"
The child pointed weakly down the road.
"Over there… where the workers stay."
I followed the gesture.
The foreign quarter.
It stood apart without walls—set aside by neglect. Narrow lanes. Low roofs. Structures built fast and cheap. Temporary things had a way of becoming permanent when no one bothered to replace them.
"Bomi," I said sharply, turning to the coachman. "Go on to the Marquis' son. Inform them we'll be delayed."
He opened his mouth to argue.
"Now."
He hesitated, then saluted and pulled the horses away, the carriage retreating with visible reluctance.
Victoria watched it go, then looked at me.
"Why didn't you go with him?"
"Because," I said, pressing my palm to the child's fevered forehead, "you can't manage this alone."
Her lips tightened. She said nothing.
We walked.
The farther we went, the worse it became. Mud clung to our hems. Refuse gathered in corners. The air felt wrong—heavy, damp, tinged with rot and something metallic. People watched us with guarded eyes, curiosity dulled by exhaustion.
At last, we reached a shack barely standing, its wood warped, its roof sagging.
"Hello?" Victoria called, pushing the door open as I held the child close. "Is anyone here?"
The stench inside answered first.
One room. Bare floor. No fire. On a tattered bed lay a woman, her body shuddering with each breath.
"Cough—"
She rolled onto her side, choking, fingers clawing weakly at the blanket.
I didn't hesitate.
I couldn't yet name the illness, but the signs were clear enough—fever, respiratory distress. Contagion was possible. Hesitation would kill her faster than disease.
As I administered the medicine, her eyes flew open. Panic flared as she tried to pull away.
"Easy," I murmured, tightening my grip.
I let my qi flow—controlled, deliberate—cooling overheated flesh, easing the internal strain.
Slowly, painfully slowly, her breathing steadied.
She slept.
The cough lingered even then, rattling in her chest like a warning.
"Be careful," Victoria said quietly, pulling me back. The child had curled nearby, coughing again.
"What do you mean?" I asked, though I already knew.
"This could spread," she said. "Easily."
I nodded. "We'll inform Miss Li Hua."
Victoria's gaze swept the shack, her expression hardening.
"These conditions… they breed sickness."
I glanced down at her hem, dark with mud.
"You've dirtied your hanfu."
She snorted softly.
"So have you."
Outside, the sky had shifted.
The sun remained, but distant—filtered through something sickly. The light falling over the foreign quarter carried a faint, nauseating tint, as though the world itself were unwell.
"His name is Albrecht von Morgenstahl," I said as we resumed walking. "His personal maid is Elise Krämer."
Victoria hummed in acknowledgment, but her eyes lingered behind us—on the shack, on the cough still echoing faintly.
We were no longer moving toward nobility.
We were walking through consequence.
The day no longer held a clear color—only green and dirt, sickness and silence.