Page 102 of The Mask Falling

Cordier dropped the smile and came straight to my side. “Flora.” She turned my face into the light. “You’re burning up. And these bruises—” Delicate knuckles skirted my forehead. “How long have you had a fever?”

“Since last night,” Arcturus said, when I could only rattle and wheeze.

“All right.” Cordier placed a hand on my back. “Let’s take a look at you, honey.”

While Cordier moved her case to her lap, Ducos sat in the armchair. A long black coat was buttoned to her chin, and her stiletto boots gleamed.

“Flora,” she said. “And auxiliary. Good to see you both alive after that little . . . interlude.” Her dark hair fell in roller curls. “Flora, I can see you’re unwell, but I need you to—”

“Isaure,” Cordier broke in, “please. She can hardly breathe, let alone talk.”

Ducos opened her mouth as if to protest before I dissolved into more bone-racking coughs. She pursed her lips.

“I’ll need you to take off your shirt,” Cordier said to me. “Let’s send these two out, shall we?”

Shivering all over, I shook my head. Arcturus had seen me that undressed before, and I doubted Ducos gave a damn. I eased off my nightshirt and crossed my arms over my breasts.

It had been about twelve years since I had last had a checkup from anyone other than Nick. Cordier checked my temperature, listened to my breathing, attached my forefinger to the same device she had used before, and took a couple of blood samples. Next, she aimed a handheld scanner at my chest. It spat out a monochrome image, which Cordier studied, her expression grim.

“What is it?” Ducos asked tersely.

Cordier breathed out through her nose. “Pleural effusion,” she concluded. “I’ll need to rule out an empyema.” Ducos looked as if she had developed a sudden headache. “Command should never have cleared her for assignment without a comprehensive medical. It’s a wonder she’s been able to get out of bed, let alone—”

“Pleural effusion?” I whispered. Every word now caused a jag of pain. “What is that?”

Cordier turned to me. “It’s a buildup of excess fluid in the lungs,” she said gently. “In your case, it’s unilateral—just in the right lung. Given your symptoms and personal history, I suspect this is a complication of pneumonia, caused by foreign material being aspirated into the respiratory tract.”

Arcturus had courteously averted his gaze during the examination, but now our eyes met.

“From the waterboard,” I said.

“That seems likely. If you inhaled your own vomit, or water got into your lungs, it could have caused an infection,” Cordier said. “Especially if the water in question was soiled. You’re also dehydrated.”

Her voice sounded distant. Instead, I heard my own terrified screams as the water carved its way down my throat. I tasted it again.

I had thought the memories were all that had followed me from that dark room. Yet ever since, I had been growing a souvenir inside my own body.

Cordier cupped my elbow, stirring me back to the present. “Is anything else bothering you, Paige?”

I pressed my ribs. Part of me was still in the darkness.

“Broke my wrist last year.” I drew my nightshirt back on. “Gives me trouble sometimes.”

Cordier waited for me to show her which arm, then rolled up my sleeve. She kneaded the fine bones of my hand and wrist before she used her scanner again. I had never relished strangers touching me, but Cordier was so composed, it was difficult to be tense in her presence. Even the way she spoke was calm, her voice as even as the surface of a pool.

“Scaphoid fracture,” she concluded. “That bone tends to heal slowly. Did you fall on it?”

I nodded. “Scion knows she has an injury to that wrist,” Ducos pointed out. “A cast will make her conspicuous.”

Cordier shot her an exasperated look and probed my wrist again. This time it was harder not to flinch. “It needs support,” she said. “This kind of fracture can lead to painful difficulties.” She reached into her case. “A temporary brace will do. She can remove it on assignment.”

Ducos chewed the inside of her cheek. Presumably taking her silence as permission, Cordier went to work, a crease between her razor-thin eyebrows. By the time she was finished, it looked as if I was wearing a fingerless glove. I gave my hand an experimental clench.

“There. Wear it when you can.” Cordier tucked her sleek hair behind her ears again. “I know a medic in another sub-network who has dealt with waterboard survivors. He’ll have what I need to treat the effusion.” She rose and smoothed her skirt. “Give me a couple of hours. Until then, Flora, you need to rest. Lie on your right side to help with the pain.”

I made a noncommittal sound. She gathered up her case and left the room at a brisk trot.

“Cordier is one of the best in the network,” Ducos said. “I am sure she can ease your discomfort.”

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