TELL ME ABOUT IT.;P.

I covered my mouth with my wrist to hide my laughter. I didn't have to respond; she kept texting. She was probably going insane in the house.

Really, e-mail me and tell me about it. Hid phone and digidiary under my mattress. Papa clueless.

Dr. Chase snores. This is her: -_- o O (ZZZ) Can you come over and help me with the Gene thing this week? Papa might let you.

4 days and 20 hours.;P Gotta hide phone again. <3 i="" put="" my="" own="" phone="" away="" and="" took="" a="" cleansing="" breath.="" "i'm="" safe.="" it's="">

The squeaking of a hinge in the night argued against my mantra.

Gathering my nightgown off the floor, my heart ticking like an old clock, I tiptoed to the door to listen. Someone was walking the hallway outside, their footsteps sc.r.a.ping slowly in the direction of Isambard's room. Had I awoken Issy? Had he come to check on me and then retreated? He'd told me his hearing was much sharper now-that the Lazarus wanted him to stalk his prey by sight and sound and smell. Maybe he'd heard me talking to myself.

I knew exactly how to open my door so it wouldn't make any noise. Poking my head into the hall, I listened. If he was awake, I could talk to him.

But instead of Isambard's footfalls, I heard a voice. Mother's.

My beleaguered heart sinking, I walked toward Issy's room, keeping to the wall. Aside from Mom's voice the house was so still that could hear the sticky sound made whenever one of my bare feet left the wooden floor.

Issy's door was open. I peered around the corner, holding my breath. Mom was standing over him as he slept, dead to the world. Her hands were held before her body, and her torso rocked back and forth on her hips like part of a hinged Punch and Judy doll.

"Heavenly Father, be merciful," I heard her whisper. "Heavenly Father, please, cure Isambard, I know You can cure him. I know You can bring him back to life, as You did Your son, Jesus. As You did the real Lazarus."

Cupping my hand around my mouth, I leaned away from the door and let my shoulder blades hug the wall. I willed myself not to cry.

"Death is nothing to You, Lord. I trust, I have faith. You are all powerful, all merciful." She was starting to sob, her words tangling in her mouth. "Please, cure my son, please."

I couldn't take any more. I ran back to my room, my heels never touching the ground. Shutting my bedroom door, I backed up to my bed and allowed gravity to take over, ending up supine atop the blankets.

Only then did I let myself weep for my poor mother, my brother, and all we had known.

The next morning I felt like a zombie.

Midway through a morose breakfast, during which Mom kept cutting up a slice of apple into smaller and smaller pieces for Isambard, Dr. Evola opened the front door. "Just me. Headed upstairs to die now," I heard him say as he shut and locked it behind him.

Mom and Dad left the table and moved to the foyer. The minute they were gone I stood up. Isambard made furious, whooshing arm movements at me, bidding me to go eavesdrop. I did, moving as close as I could to the dining room door without being spotted.

"Are you well, Dr. Evola?" I heard Mom ask.

"Not truly at death's door, not yet," he responded. The cherub-haired, monocled Charles Evola normally spoke in such young, chipper tones-but not today. "It's a madhouse over there."

"You've been gone so long!"

"I couldn't leave." I heard him put down his bag. "Most of our living volunteers quit, as well as some of the living staff. They're afraid of the new strain. We've been scrambling since."

"Is there any news?"

"Not that I've heard. Dr. Dearly's never available when I go over-only a man named Dr. Salvez. Plus I'm a tech, not an epidemiologist. I don't understand half the stuff they deal with anyway."

"We're glad you made it back safely, at any rate," Dad said.

"Thanks. It means a lot to me-especially the fact that you let me stay here. If you'll pardon me, though, I would love to get a shower. Then I'll collapse. If I take up your couch for the next twenty hours? I apologize in advance."

"I'll leave your plate in the oven, Dr. Evola."

"Mrs. Roe, I love you. I'd duel your husband for you, but I'm pretty sure he'd annihilate me. There wouldn't even be enough left to reanimate."

The sound of feet on the stairs told me that Dr. Evola was headed up. I took my seat just before Mom and Dad walked back in. Good or bad? Isambard mouthed at me, as he sc.r.a.ped the apple bits off of the table and onto the floor.

I waggled my hand at him to indicate, So-so.

Isambard used his ignorance to advantage, asking about Dr. Evola as my parents sat down. Dad answered his questions, and I let my mind wander again. That the very people who'd been so eager to help the dead before were now turning tail was deplorable. I almost thought of volunteering, but I wasn't that ambitious, or that willing to leave the safety of my house. My conscience called this cowardice, and I agreed with it. But fear won out.

"Pamela?" my mother said, calling me back to reality.

"Yes?"

"Would you mind going to the market for me today? I didn't get the chance this morning. And can you manage alone?"

My heart stopped. My father gave up speaking to Isambard and looked at Mom curiously. "Alone, dear?"

"Things are calmer today. It's not far." Mom's voice softened, and she didn't meet our eyes. "I don't want to risk ... with the anti-zombie ... Issy ..."

"Yes," I told her, before her unfinished sentences could linger long in the air, unacknowledged. "I'll go."

"No. I can do it," Dad said. "Or keep an eye on things so you can, Malati."

My nerves started buzzing at the thought of going outside, but I had to shake my head. "No. You have work. Mother has things to do. I can go. I've gone hundreds of times." After what I'd seen a few hours ago, I had no choice but to do whatever my mother wanted. Even if it terrified me.

I had to be strong for her. For all of them. There was no point in pretending I could ever do otherwise. I now knew that in keeping my mouth shut, I'd made the right choice.

The market near our house was busier than I was used to. I kept my head down, concentrating on remaining calm as I stood in line at each of the usual stalls, which were almost exclusively staffed and patronized by living people. Soon my basket was heavy with fruit and vegetables, the smell of hot straw filling my nose as the sun rose higher in the sky and beat down on my bonnet. I'd done well. I'd gotten through without incident.

But I lost it just as I was getting ready to go.

In order to exit the market area, I had to walk through a narrow brick archway. Standing to one side of it, newly arrived since I'd pa.s.sed under it on my way in, was a zombified busker with a dancing parrot on a leather lead, playing a fiddle and singing an ancient song, his voice sad and low.

"If she'd been a colonel's lady, I could not have loved her more.

But she was the ratcatcher's daughter, And I not long for sh.o.r.e."

It wasn't the song. It wasn't the fact that his dirty hat was upturned, awaiting the generosity of pa.s.sing strangers. It wasn't the sight of the bird's dull, tattered feathers as it shuffled back and forth.

It was the fact that I'd never seen the man before in my life, and he was standing in what my mind still viewed as Ebeneezer Coughlin's spot. And he was dead. His skin was melting away from his muscles, discolored and sickly looking. His teeth were stained, his eyes turning to pools of jelly in his sockets, like solidified tears. And I loved my brother, I loved my friends, but in that second all I could see was the decaying busker and his spiritless parrot, and on the street beyond him, more dead people. And in the city beyond them, in the New Victorian Territories, in the world, more dead people, some that would hunt and claw and bite, and I could do nothing to stop it ... and it was Mr. Coughlin's spot, where he'd played his instrument with a single arm and amazing skill. Mr. Coughlin, who'd died even though I tried to help him, and killed the zombie that had bitten him, and gone to jail for it, and oh ... G.o.d. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair ...

The basket slipped from my fingers, landing beside my feet with a squeaky, uneven bounce. I knew I was hyperventilating. I tried to breathe slowly, shutting my eyes, my nose burning as tears fought for escape. I had to breathe. I had to get home. I was turning into a mess, right where everyone could see.

"Miss? Miss!"

I forced my eyes open. A man stood before me, his face vaguely familiar-but I couldn't place him. Panic gripped me anew. I was having a meltdown, and now a strange man was speaking to me, when I had no chaperone, no one to defend me.

The man looked about and then offered me a gloved hand. "I know this is highly irregular, but perhaps you'd do me the favor of accompanying me off to the side?" His voice was deep and warm, his accent aristocratic.

It took me only a second to decide that I would do as he asked-it was easier than fighting, easier than running. People were staring. One more brick in the foundation of my little life was crumbling into dust, and I was almost ready to give up caring.

I didn't take the man's hand, but backed up to where he indicated. He picked up my basket-he carried one as well-and moved to join me. "I'm so sorry," I managed to get out as he set both baskets beside me.

"No need for that." He opened his coat, revealing a gold-tooled pistol in a holster at his hip, and reached into an interior pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. The sight of it caused me to recall Allister and all his apparent kindnesses, twisting the knife. "Here. Don't speak. Breathe."

I took the hankie and put all my effort into doing so, pinching my fingers around my nose and breathing through my mouth. My left hand, I laid over my chest. Seeing this, he said, "Are you in pain? Should I call for an ambulance?"

"No. Please. It'll stop."

Nodding uncertainly, the man maintained a respectful distance. After a few minutes the episode pa.s.sed and I began to feel more embarra.s.sed than scared.

"The last time I saw you," he ventured, "you were dealing with things by screaming b.l.o.o.d.y murder. This can't be an improvement."

"What?" Confusion chased away some of my misery. I looked into his face again, and it hit me-his eyes. Those hazel eyes had once looked upon me with sympathy, even as he told me that I had to accept that my brother might be killed if he took us to the ships. "Colonel Lopez!"

The gentleman dropped into one of the smoothest genuflections I'd ever seen. "No longer Colonel, but yes. Keep breathing."

The last time I'd seen Edmund Lopez, I hadn't paid much attention to what he looked like. I'd been more concerned with my dying brother and thinking up suitable punishments for Michael Allister. Now I saw that he was a man of average height and strong build, perhaps in his early thirties, with chiseled features and skin the color of dark burnished burl wood. He wore a thin black moustache as well as fashionable sideburns, and was dressed impeccably in a dark suit and top hat, a beautiful black great coat, and shoes so shiny they reflected the hem of my skirt.

Suddenly I felt ashamed of my two-year-old dress, my shabby gloves, my plainly braided hair. "I'm sorry, I didn't ..." I cleared my throat. "You remember me?"

"How could I forget?" Lopez smiled gently. "You know, if anything good can be said to have come out of the Siege, I'd say it was the number of brave young people who rose to the occasion. Er ... it strikes me that this could be taken as an awful pun. Dead rising and all that."

I couldn't think of a response to this. I felt my cheeks heating. "Thank you," I almost whispered. Someone outside of my family really thought that about me? Someone who'd been in the army thought that about me?

"I hate to be so familiar, but it's Miss Roe, isn't it? I believe that's what that boy called you."

"Yes, Mr. Lopez," I tried.

Lopez's eyes darkened a tad. "Ah, not 'Mister' either." Before I could question this, he gestured to the archway. "If you are certain you don't require medical attention, may I at least escort you out to the street? See you safely home, perhaps? How may I be of service to you-if you would like help at all?"

Again I decided to accede to his offer. "I'd like that. Home, that is."

"My distinct pleasure. If anyone asks, I am an extremely doting cousin three times removed."

He picked up the baskets and waited for me to fall in beside him, and we walked in silence past the offending busker and out onto the street. When I told him I lived only a few blocks up, he looked relieved. I couldn't blame him. It felt odd to be walking with someone I'd never been properly introduced to, even though I owed him so much.

Eventually he said, "If I may, how is your brother?"

"Zombified," I informed him as I tried to clean up my tear-streaked face. "But well. Very well." I settled on the idea even as I spoke of it. "You should come in and see him. He owes you his grat.i.tude. We all do."

"I would hate to impose." His gait was measured and swift, positively martial.

"No, no." It seemed like the best idea in the universe. "I'll tell my mother who you are. My father works just next door. I'm sure they'd both like to thank you." It occurred to me, "And I should apologize ... for anything I might have said the night of the Siege."

"I do hope you're referring to the fact that you bellowed an order directly into my ear at one point?" Amus.e.m.e.nt glittered in his eyes, though distantly. "I'm lucky I'm not deaf on that side."

Twisting his handkerchief around my left index finger, I admitted, "Yes ... that. Please forgive me."

Lopez chuckled softly. "You are a hundred times forgiven. Honestly, if I hadn't helped myself to a solid swig of port before I left base, after hearing the orders we'd been given? I might have been screaming right back at you."

After a few more steps we were at my front stoop, and I wondered at how quickly we had gotten there. "This is it. Won't you come in, sir?"

"If the invitation is extended, it would be an honor-but I'm certain your parents will be far more concerned about your recent fit than the strange man you met in the marketplace. I'd just like to see you safely inside." He climbed one of the steps.

Oh, no.

He stopped on a dime when I darted in front of him, peering curiously at me. "Oh. Um ..." Looking into his startlingly bright eyes, I just came out with it. "Please don't tell them."

Lopez frowned. "Miss Roe, you're not well."

"It's ... it's nothing. Please. My mother and father have it worse ..." I shouldn't go blabbing about my family to a stranger. I knew that. I tried hard to swallow the words, never breaking eye contact with him.

Lopez was silent. He pressed his lips together and ultimately said, "I'm not keen on the idea of helping you keep secrets from your family, Miss Roe. They should know you just had an attack. They've taken you to see a doctor, have they not?"

"Please." I put every ounce of fear, every shred of fatigue into the word that I could muster, my shoulders sinking. "I'm fine. I know we've not been introduced. That you don't owe me anything. That we shouldn't even be talking ..."

"No, we shouldn't." Lopez pa.s.sed me my basket and considered my proposition for a moment before shaking his head. "Very well. But then I would rather not come inside. You and your parents owe me nothing, not even thanks. I did nothing to earn it."

"That's not true."

"It is true in that I could have done much more." He reached into his coat again and drew out an embossed ivory calling card. "Here. I'll leave my card for your parents. I'll try to call on Sunday, that's probably the least inconvenient time. And if I'm not welcome, please, have them send me an e-mail. There shall be no hard feelings."

Disappointed, I accepted the card. "If you prefer."

"I do." He tipped his hat. "Go inside and have a cup of tea. Rest. Please give my regards to your brother and your parents. Good afternoon."

I curtsied and watched as he set off in the direction of the market again. I felt guilty, realizing I'd made him go out of his way.

When my eyes fell upon his card, my guilt was immediately replaced by shock.

He was, indeed, neither Colonel or Mister.

He was Lord Edmund Lopez.

9.