"Knowing that, you came down to the river?" she yelled. "How dare you?"
"Maybe you shouldn't have slapped me," I said. "I told you to stay back."
But I was the one who should've stayed back. I should have ignored her and any foolish ideas about taking her boat. I didn't have the Scourge--I was almost sure of that--but I still should've walked on. Obviously.
"We'll notify your father of your whereabouts," Gossel told Della. "I'm sure we'll have you back home first thing in the morning."
Two offers that had not been extended to me. My parents were probably still awake, desperate for any news about me. My father would've gone to Weevil's home, hoping to find me there. Weevil's family wouldn't know what had happened to him either. Then my father would check the road to the towns, or the towns themselves. He'd expose himself to the Scourge that way.
I wasn't sure how far away we were from river country, or how late at night it was, but a full day of wagon travel could put us fifteen or sixteen miles away, maybe more. Once he got safely out of this town, if he found a good road, Weevil could be home by tomorrow night. I hoped our families could last that long without going out of their minds with worry.
I didn't look for Weevil as I was led back to the courtyard. If I had seen him, I might've reacted and given him away. So instead of looking, I kept focused on moving forward. My limp was quickly getting worse, and each step begged me to stop. Nor did it help that my boots were wet now, making my feet heavier than before. However, every time I tried to slow down, the rope yanked me forward. My only choice was to keep going or be dragged back to the courtyard.
Luckily, we weren't that far away. The first thing I did once I was back inside the cell was to collapse onto the bed and give my foot a rest. It had swollen so much that it pressed on the leather of the boot. I probably wouldn't be able to take the boot off now even if I wanted to. Or if I did, I'd never get it back on again. So although it hurt to leave it the way it was, that was how it'd have to stay.
"In you go, miss," Gossel said to Della, firmly, but in a kinder tone than he'd ever used with me.
She stopped short of the cell doors. "Absolutely not. Do you know who my father is?"
"This is where those suspected of having the Scourge must wait until they can be checked by the physician. It's Governor Felling's orders."
"My father should be the governor right now! The last election was a fraud!"
I didn't know about that. By law, River People couldn't own property, and as such, weren't granted the right to vote. But if all I had to choose from was the father of a girl like her and a governor who would house sick people--or those suspected of being sick--in a cell meant for criminals, then for now, I was glad not to have to vote. It was like choosing between two poisons, the only difference being the way it would kill you.
"Your father can take up the matter with Governor Felling tomorrow morning," Gossel said. "Now walk in, miss, or I'll push you in."
Push her in, I thought. I would've liked to have seen it.
But Della stepped inside and the door behind her clanged shut. Gossel looked my way and said, "We'll be watching this cell very closely now. Try to run again and you won't return to this cell. You won't return anywhere."
I turned away from him to lie down on the bed. I wasn't going to try escaping. I could barely walk, much less run.
Once we were alone, Della crouched down in the corner of the cell and began crying, far too loudly for my taste. Perhaps she hoped that her cries would carry across the courtyard, roads, and river to pierce those thick walls of her home and tell her father where she was. Instead, they only pierced my ears, like a hawk swooping for the kill.
I knew how to make her stop. But I wouldn't do it. I didn't hate her that much. Not yet anyway.
Back in the isolation wagon, Weevil had told me that the sound of scratching was the second-worst sound in the world. That was a joke between us, because we both
knew the worst--it was me, singing. I could sing to Della now and make her cry for an entirely different reason.
Singing was the way Weevil and I had met. Four summers ago, I had been working in my family's garden, singing a tune to pass the time. Weevil had been fishing nearby and came to the rear of our garden to beg me to stop.
"I don't mean to be rude," he had said, "but that truly is the most horrible sound I've ever heard. Sort of like a chicken's dying squawk. Only that ends--yours just goes on and on. And then on and on some more, like you don't even need air while creating that blasphemy of noise."
With a smile, I had sat back on my heels. "Did you seriously think that wouldn't be rude?"
"Oh, it was rude--I agree," Weevil had said. "And I'm sorry about that. But it wasn't as rude as you singing in the first place. Honestly, if I had any money, I'd give you all of it, just to beg you to stop."
"But you don't have money," I'd said with a wink, and then continued singing. Weevil's pretending to roll on the ground in pain--or perhaps actually being in pain--was the beginning of our friendship.
It had also given me a great idea for how my singing might be of use. Ironically, that same idea might spell the end of our friendship. I wished I knew where Weevil was now, whether he was already on his way home. I hoped so.
At least if he was gone, he wouldn't have to share in the misery of listening to Della cry. Until this very moment, I had been comfortable knowing that my singing could produce the worst sound in the world.
But Della's crying was worse, and she was getting louder.
Finally, just to get her to stop, I rolled over and said, "Would you like me to sing to you? It might help you get to sleep." Or make her pass out--I didn't much care.