Each of them had deep purple bruises all over their bodies.

Bruises like the ones on Sylph.

I don’t know what kind of poison causes blood to refuse to clot, but I’m racking my brains to come up with an antidote. A plant. A mineral. Surely something in this neglected wilderness we’re stranded in can cause blood to clot.

I have to find an antidote before Sylph gets worse. Before any of the remaining fourteen get worse. So far, the ones who died without an injury to speed the process have all been older than fifty. I’m hoping the younger names on the list can fight the effects of the poison for a while longer, but the reality is that I have no idea how much time they have left. And no idea how to help them.

A few of the older men work quietly to divide up the last of our food rations for breakfast as I pass the supply wagon. We’ll need to hunt today. And we’ll need to bury our dead.

We also need to leave the meadow behind and push forward. Staying in one place before we’ve reached Lankenshire is suicide.

I reach the medical wagon and find Sylph asleep on a blanket inside. Rachel sits beside her.

“How is she?” I ask quietly. Three others injured in last night’s attack are sleeping in the wagon bed as well. The medical supplies have been stacked against the back wall or shoved under side benches to make room.

Rachel meets my gaze, and I shiver at the bleakness in her eyes. “She’s tired. And her stomach hurts.” Her voice is like an empty room swept clean of any sign of life.

Something hot and thick burns in my throat, choking off my air. Sylph is going to die if I can’t figure out a way to fix this.

“Where’s Smithson?” Rachel asks, and her pale fingers gently trace a pattern against Sylph’s hand. “He should be here.”

“I sent one of the recruits to call him to the medical wagon. He was on guard duty all night, and I didn’t realize she was already . . .” My words fade as Sylph moans and opens her eyes.

“Rachel?”

“I’m here,” Rachel says, and reaches up to comb stray curls from Sylph’s forehead.

“I think I’m sick,” she says.

Rachel makes a tiny choked noise. I step forward, and fumble for something to say that will comfort Sylph without lying to her. I can’t think of anything.

“Yes, you’re sick.” I can hardly hold her gaze—this girl with a heart big enough to take in a sharp-tongued, independent girl and an orphaned, outcast boy. This girl who deserves so much better than to bleed to death in the middle of nowhere.

She lifts the neckline of her tunic and stares at herself. Then she lowers the neckline and swallows audibly. “I’m sick like Keegan was sick, aren’t I? Was he marked, too?”

I nod, and work hard to get my lips to form words that will give her hope. Comfort. Something. But words won’t come. Maybe they don’t exist. Not for this.

“Smithson?” she asks, and her voice is already threaded through with exhaustion.

“He’s on his way,” Rachel says just as Smithson pulls the flap aside and climbs into the wagon. He takes one look at Sylph and nearly shoves me to the ground in his effort to reach her side.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks, his hands hovering over her bruised arms and sweat-slicked face as if he just needs to find where the sickness started so he can fix it.

“Are you sick too?” she asks, her fingers trembling as she reaches for him.

He shakes his head and catches her fingers in his hand. “I’m fine. Shh.” He brushes her palm against his lips. “I’m fine. Let’s worry about helping you get better.”

Rachel’s shoulders bow as if an impossible weight has just landed on them, and she curls toward her knees.

“I’m not going to get better,” Sylph says softly, and tears trace a glistening path down her cheeks.

“Of course you are.” Smithson looks at Rachel. “Tell her, Rachel. Tell her she’s going to get better.”

Rachel shivers and slowly lowers herself to the wagon bed until she’s lying pressed against Sylph’s side.

Smithson looks at me, his expression frantic. “She’s going to get better.”

I make myself meet his gaze. “I think she’s been poisoned.”

“By whom?” The veins on his neck bulge.

“By the same man who marked your door. Five of the nineteen who were in marked rooms died last night. Their symptoms started out just like hers.” My voice shakes, and I wonder if he can hear the regret I don’t know how to say. If he knows the guilt I feel for failing to protect them. “Do you have bruises too?”

He shakes his head and looks from me to Sylph, whose eyes are closed again. “How much time does she have?” He chokes on the words. “How much?”

“I don’t know. The others eventually bled . . .” I don’t want to finish the sentence. Don’t want to paint an image in his head of Sylph bleeding out while we all hover in helpless anguish by her side.

“If it’s poison, there has to be an antidote.” His agony is a palpable force, barely contained by the flimsy walls of the wagon. I can hardly stand beneath the heat of his stare. “Find the antidote, Logan. Please.”

The pressure of feeling responsible for outwitting the Commander, catching a killer, and safely delivering my people to Lankenshire doubles as his words sink in and take root.

Find the antidote. How? I don’t even know what kind of poison was used, much less where to begin looking for an antidote. But I can’t tell him that. I can’t rip his last shred of hope away from him.