Frida through the open door. “She’ll be fine now that the doctor is here.”
Hanna said, “I’ll call tomorrow to see how she is.”
“Go,” Dr. Venohr told his driver, and they sped away.
They rode in silence for what felt like a long time. Largo kept an eye on Remy while Dr. Venohr periodically checked her pulse. Finally, he nodded. “She’s stable. I’ll give you some pills for her. With the injection, she should sleep through the night, but you aren’t to leave her side for any reason.”
“I won’t,” said Largo. Then, “I—I don’t have any money to pay you.”
Dr. Venohr waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be foolish. As I said, I’m an old friend.”
“Thank you.” But he did feel foolish, and embarrassed. He felt like he needed to say something more, but he wasn’t sure what. “I notice you have a human driver. I thought someone in your position would have a Mara.”
Dr. Venohr frowned. “I practically live with Maras all day and night at the laboratory. I don’t need them bothering me at home too.”
“You don’t have any Maras at home?”
“None. Don’t misunderstand me. Maras are lovely devices and invaluable to my work, but there are times when I prefer the company of humans or to be left alone.”
“I understand. I’m not all that fond of them either,” said Largo, thinking of the dancing Black Widow. He wished he could tell Remy about it. He knew it would make her laugh.
They fell silent again until Dr. Venohr said, “I hesitated to bring this up earlier with Remy’s friends present, and I don’t want to alarm you, but I’ll need to take some of Remy’s blood before I leave tonight.”
“Why?”
Dr. Venohr sighed. “Have you ever heard of what laypeople call the Drops?”
Largo stiffened. People talked about the Drops all the time in Little Shambles, though he’d never seen a case himself. Supposedly, perfectly healthy people could be walking along the street, fall into a seizure, and be dead in an instant. Largo had never believed the stories, but now they made him afraid. “Yes, I have,” he said.
“There’s a slight chance—and I must emphasize that it is slight—that Remy’s convulsions are brought on by the virus that causes the Drops.” Dr. Venohr looked at Largo. “Tell me, does Remy buy goods on the black market? It doesn’t have to be anything large. It could be as small as a piece of jewelry.”
“I don’t think so,” said Largo. “I’m sure she would have mentioned it.”
“Excellent. Many black market goods are brought here from the ruins of High Proszawa. These goods can be contaminated with traces of the plague bombs dropped by the enemy during the Great War. The petty scavengers who loot the ruins are putting us all at risk.”
“Oh,” said Largo. “I had no idea.” He could barely understand what was happening tonight. He looked at Remy. The possibility of her dying was absurd. Impossible. Still, he gripped her hand tighter. “She had a shot recently. She said it was vitamins. Could that be the problem?”
Dr. Venohr said, “I’m aware of the injection. An associate of mine gave it to her. It has nothing to do with her current condition, I assure you.”
“That’s a relief,” said Largo, feeling as lost as ever.
The doctor checked Remy’s pulse again and said, “As I was saying before, even in the face of plague, life plays its jokes and presents us with little ironies.”
“What do you mean?”
The doctor looked at him. “Have long have you been addicted to morphia?”
“I don’t … I mean, I wouldn’t …”
“Come now. I’m not a police officer or your mother. I’m merely asking as a physician.”
“Perhaps a year,” said Largo quietly. “Though I’m not really addicted. I just, Remy and I, we just like it.”
“Of course. Of course.”
Largo leaned closer to the doctor. “How did you know?”
“It’s your eyes. Morphia affects the shape of the pupil. It’s very subtle. You have to look for it. Don’t worry, people on the street, your employer, even most police officers are unlikely to notice unless you go too far.”
“Thank you for the advice,” Largo said. “But before, why did you say there were ironies?”
Dr. Venohr chuckled to himself. “Because it appears that morphia may give users a certain amount of immunity to the plague virus.”
“That’s good news, then. Remy uses morphia too.”
“As much as you?”
Largo sagged against the back of the car. “No.”
“There you are,” said Dr. Venohr. “Continue to addle your senses, young man. Morphia might ruin your life, but it just might save it. That’s what I meant by irony.”
Largo looked out the window. “We’re almost there.”
When they arrived, Dr. Venohr helped Largo walk Remy into her flat and get her into bed. The doctor took a blood sample from her arm and placed it in his bag. On his way out he said, “Remember: do not leave her alone. I believe that Remy has a Trefle?”
“She does.”
Dr. Venohr took a card from his pocket and gave it to Largo. “You may reach me at this number day or night.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“I’ll see myself out,” he said. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes?” said Largo.
The doctor laid a finger along the side of his nose. “Don’t tell anybody about our little chat regarding the plague. We don’t want to start a panic, do we?”
“Of course not. I won’t say a word.”
“You have some morphia with you, I take it?”
“A little.”
Dr. Venohr took a vial from his bag and set it on a gilt end table. “Here is a bit more. I don’t want you fainting tonight or being tempted to leave to purchase more. Of course, if anyone asks, you did not obtain this from me.”
“I appreciate it, Doctor. We both do.”
“Don’t appreciate it. Merely stay alert. Remy should be fine by morning. I’ll call then. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Largo sat down by Remy’s bed. The chair had a straight back and was uncomfortable because Remy didn’t buy it for sitting
