Infinite 01 - Infinite Sacrifice

did not work?” Mother asks with fear. “You still have the emerald powder, though?”
    “Yes, I keep it in a safe place.” I notice he does not trust us with the whereabouts.
    “I need Elizabeth to come with me to my appointment tomorrow,” Hadrian says to Mother. “I must attend to a very wealthy lady who is paying triple my normal fees. A highborn woman such as this requires that only a woman can inspect her chaste body.”
    “There is no servant you can sacrifice?” Mother inquires protectively.
    “Only three servants have shown up to work today, and they are all male.”
    “I will go,” I say to Hadrian. “I will bring my smelling apple and be careful.”
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    Hadrian helps me up on the cart. It has rained heavily; the manure and human debris stop up the gutters and cause the streets to flood with filth. Rats stream down the side streets, fleeing the water. Rakers kick the rats away as they try to unclog stoppages. As we pull away, I see one raker pull an exceptionally large dead rat out of the gutter by its tail. The streets are so empty I can see all the way down to an enormous bonfire.
    Hadrian, noticing the fires, explains, “King Edward ordered purifying bonfires to be lit at every port and street to ward away the plague. Guards are checking everyone entering the city, keeping all foreigners out. A little late for that, Edward,” he says in the direction of the palace.
    The city is at war but with the invisible enemy within. We get to the nobleman’s house in no time due to the small number of carts on the road. Hadrian holds up his smelling apple and grabs his leather supply bag, forgetting to assist me. I jump down but splash foul water up the hem of my kirtle.
    Hadrian looks at the hem with disdain. “You should be more careful, Elizabeth.”
    The servant who opens the door looks ill himself. Sweat beads on his pale forehead. Hadrian pulls me away, noticing the signs of sickness, asks him to lead the way, and keep his distance. The man pulls the tapestry aside that conceals the grand bedroom; only the finest fabrics and tapestries decorate the cavernous room. We can hear labored breathing and moaning emanating behind the drawn bed curtains of the massive, carved canopy bed.
    The nobleman is sitting beside the bed. He stands up to shake Hadrian’s hand, but Hadrian shakes his head at the request. “Not the time for such things.”
    The nobleman pulls his hand back and goes to open the bed curtains. He reveals a terrible sight that makes me freeze. There, on silk-tasseled pillows, lays a pale, sweating form with large black-and-blue splotches around her mouth, neck, and legs. Hadrian turns at the half-dressed sight and steps back behind the bed to respect her modesty, though it appears she cares little. Her eyes are glazed and fixed on the ceiling, not even noticing our arrival. Breathing seems to take every bit of her energy, and the lumps under her armpits are so swollen they caused her to keep both arms above her head. I’ve never seen such a terrible sight. I wish I had the strength to leave.
    Hadrian calls out, “Check her neck, underarms, thighs, and groin for buboes and tell me how many she has.”
    I walk up hesitantly with my smelling apple close to my nose and mouth trying to breath sparingly. Drawing near, I expect her to look at me, but she remains fixed. Even when I pull down her bed coverings to search her thighs and groin, she doesn’t flinch.
    “I count three buboes, two underarm and one on her thigh.”
    “Are they seeping?”
    “Two are seeping.”
    “Then we must drain the third.”
    My heart quickens at this task I never thought I would be asked to perform.
    “Come here, Elizabeth.” I walk around the bed as Hadrian is pulling out a thin iron rod. “Heat this up in the fire until it is red hot. Puncture the bubo dead center with only enough pressure to break the skin. Do not apply much force or it will erupt all over you.” I hesitate, yet he shoves the handle of the poker in my hand and says, “Do as I say.”
    I heat the iron as he instructed, walk over to the feeble woman, and lean over the large unbroken bubo. As I apply pressure to the purple lump, the flesh sears, and I gag as thick, yellow liquid squirts out. I pull back and hold my apple up but can still smell the rancid smell of pus.
    “What else do you need?” I choke out.
    “Does it have a smell?”
    “Yes, like a cesspool!” I gag again. “Hadrian, I