her from kicking herself off the chaise.
Hanna looked at him. “Has this ever happened before?”
“Once or twice,” he said, “but never this badly.”
“Was she taking drugs those other times?”
Largo shook his head. “No. We were perfectly sober.”
“Does she take medication for it?”
“Not that I know of.”
After subsiding for a few seconds, Remy’s convulsions came back stronger than ever. “Oh my god,” Bianca whispered over and over like she was praying.
A moment later, Baumann returned in the company of a bald, bearded man in a tuxedo. Dr. Venohr gently pushed Hanna away from Remy so that he could look into her eyes. “How long have the convulsions been going on?” he said.
“A few minutes,” said Largo. “They’ve never been this bad before.”
“I’m afraid they have, but she didn’t want you to know about them,” said Dr. Venohr.
Largo stared at the man. “You’ve treated her?”
“I’ve known Remy her whole life. I’m an old friend of the family.”
Largo wondered what else Remy hadn’t told him. But all he could think about right now was whether she was truly ill.
What if she’s dying?
“Can you help her?”
Dr. Venohr opened a small black leather bag he had with him. “I believe so,” he said, and filled a syringe with a clear liquid from a small bottle. Tilting Remy’s head to the side, he injected the fluid directly into her jugular vein. Bianca continued repeating “Oh my god.” It was annoying, but no one bothered to stop her.
With the shot, it took only a few seconds for Remy’s convulsions to subside. Her arms and hands relaxed. Her legs stopped shaking. The grimace faded from her face. It looked almost as if she were asleep.
Largo said, “Is that it? Is she all right now?”
“For the moment,” said Dr. Venohr.
“Should we take her to a hospital?”
“That shouldn’t be necessary. But we should get her home. And she mustn’t be alone tonight. I assume you can stay and watch her?”
“Of course. For as long as it takes.”
“Good,” said Dr. Venohr. He packed the bottle and syringe in his bag. “I’ll call for my car. Can someone help you bring her to the door?”
Hanna and Baumann both volunteered.
Dr. Venohr got up and went to call his car. Largo pulled Remy up from the chaise. Hanna got on the other side and together they lifted Remy to her feet. Baumann went ahead of them, making an opening in the crowd. When they reached the door, Largo said, “Could someone find her coat? I don’t want her to get cold.” Frida, who had followed them, gestured to a Mara. It bowed and moved off. When Dr. Venohr’s car pulled up outside, they bundled Remy into her coat and laid her down in the back seat. Largo got in with her. Dr. Venohr got in the back on the other side and checked her pulse.
“Don’t worry,” said 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