Marigold's tent lay quiet but undisturbed in the executive section of the camp. Alexander, already dressed and heading for breakfast, snickered to himself as he approached. As tough as she acted for her station, she had been having a hell of a time holding her gin for the last few weeks.
Then he stopped, puzzled. Her battery-powered lamp was still faintly visible through the canvas. Had she been so far gone- no. She'd been fairly steady walking back, stopping to thank the porters dropping off fresh canteens of water and their quinine pills.
"Mari? Did you sleep in? We're going to miss breakfast if you don't hurry," he called out, approaching slowly.
He pushed open the tent flap. "Come on, this isn't funny. "
Under the drape of mosquito netting, Marigold lay silent, unresponsive. Alex blanched, then dropped to his knees fumbling under to netting to find a pulse. He found one, faint and fast.
He looked at her again, breath shallow. Her skin was flushed, but cool, clammy. Feverish.
Any doctor in this part of the world would have taken this for malaria. The symptoms aligned. But…they had taken measures. This cave was of interest to two of the top virologists in the world, and one of them was salivating at the thought of weaponizing it.
The notes from the mercenaries said that people had ingested the flowers in the case en masse, dying quickly.
Alexander had come across enough little wonders these last few weeks in the camp that he was rarely without a sample kit. More to the point, if anyone were to be infected in the middle of this marsh, despite the literal bomb of insecticide that had been dropped in the cursed fen, they needed to prioritize diagnosis and act quickly. The work was too time-sensitive to be waylaid by something as common as a parasite.
A few moments, some, gloves, a filled vial, a fevered prayer for her to not die, and perhaps also to not kill him in his sleep for the intrusion, Alexander stepped out of the tent, test kit palmed. An onlooker would have claimed that looked a good five years older at that moment, although none came.
There was a first aid station by the mess tent, with Giesma stain and a few microscopes available for quick diagnoses. The mercenaries in particular had appreciated the quick, ready medical care and decent food on top of their pay, Marigold had pointed out to him earlier that week. Panic hit him at the thought. If it were what he suspected...
Training taking over, he prepped the slide and peered into the scope. Frowned.
A dry cough came from behind him. Steeling his nerves, he turned with a polite smile to see his father standing in the doorway. Marcus had trailed behind, looking so tense that he might have screamed if as much as a gust of wind blew past. Just so.
"Good morning father," he injected a note of cheer that he knew would ring false to familiar ears.
Edward Ashford's brows raised slightly, but he didn't comment. Instead, he redirected the line of questioning. "We missed you at breakfast. Is someone unwell?" The mildness in his voice took on a chill. Marcus had drifted into Alexander's line of sight, looking a touch sick himself. Clearly, someone was regretting an incredibly stupid course of action.
Alex forced a chuckle. "Mari must have caught a bug on the ride here. I told her not to skip her meds in the evening, but she said they made her nauseous." An obvious lie, and furthermore, nicknames were strictly something for use at home. Family. The increasingly ridiculous researcher who had trailed in behind Edward Ashford, looking like he'd suddenly been given a pardon from death row, had not gone unmarked by either of them. No wonder this vicious moron had been tossed out of academia at the first opportunity.
Edward stepped forward, instinctively moving to verify for himself. Alexander's hand shot out as his father moved to see for himself, gripping his arm hard. "I've got this in hand- could you save me a plate before they close up the breakfast service though?" Marigold would be proud of her brother for that moment if she ever woke up again. "Lots to do today."
Edward held his son's gaze, startled. Something was terribly wrong, and he couldn't say it in front of Doctor Marcus. Who had a rather panicked and winded look about him.
Without another word, Lord Ashford nodded and spoke in a tone far lighter than he felt. "We can make some time then," he stepped back and turned, forcing Marcus to scuttle back as Ashford pinned him with a searching gaze.
And then the elder Ashford was gone.
Marcus turned back to the younger Ashford and, deeply uncertain, stepped back into the shade. Alexander had used the moment to snatch the slide out of its cradle quickly, depositing the contents of the kit back into the padded utility vest he wore. Alexander now stood at his cleaned station, eyes cool, silent.
Marcus swallowed, clearly realizing he'd fucked up. "Ah…everything's alright then?" He was clearly trying for a genial tone, the fucking idiot.
"Clearly not, but we'll manage," Alexander replied. He pulled off his gloves, inverting them into a single ball and stuffing them into the pocket he used for trash. Completely ignoring the medical waste bin by his elbow.
Marcus' eyes narrowed. "Perhaps I should come along. To check."
"Perhaps I could let her slit your throat for trying to poison her- she was captain of her school's fencing team, that's not an empty threat. I assume that's what the facial gymnastics just now were referring to. No, no, we hardly need to belabor the point." Alexander smiled coldly, cutting off whatever denial was about to spew from the other man's open mouth. "I'm apt to do it myself, should should I find out you've gone anywhere near my sister with intent to harm. Then again, she's the one who'd really enjoy it. You know, the little things in life." He straighten his clothes and stepped forward. "Kindly get the fuck out of my way. I have rather a lot more to do today."
Marcus fled. A moment passed, and Alexander began to move with purpose back to the executive tents. His father fell into step beside him. "Brilliant man, but I think Oswell overplayed his hand on that one." He carried an apple and a bread roll in one hand. Another kit- the bulkier one with a microscope included- was tucked under the other arm awkwardly.
Alexander took the food gratefully, allowing his father to shift the bundle to a more comfortable grip. He'd obviously hung around in earshot, and he was grateful (though a touch embarrassed) for the consideration. He considered the food. He'd prefer to do this on an empty stomach, but…it was going to be a long day. That much he had said to Marcus in truth.
Possibly also the violence. The day was still young.
"One of us will need to be back at the main site as soon as possible. Probably you. Definitely you. Marcus and I shouldn't be anywhere near each other for a while."
Edward slowed. Stopped. "Hold on." His face was grave. "No. Oswell wouldn't…no."
"I doubt Oswell would be trying to recruit her, and then allow this. He seems quite pleased yesterday after dinner," Alexander stopped, impatiently gesturing for his father to hurry up. Edward hesitated, then complied. Were the situation not so grave, he would have taken the moment to express his quiet pride in the boy's resolve.
They reached the tent. "If anyone asks you verified my findings and we're treating her for malaria presently. I'd prefer not to move her for now, but we'll see what happens. And someone will have to keep her away from knives when she wakes. I saw her take her full dose last night, but I bet Marcus thinks I found her pills. He was clearly terrified." Alexander sighed. He didn't like how this equation would have to balance, but he would follow the math through if it meant his family's legacy project could be salvaged. A stalemate, then. "I need to be recording her vitals till then."
Edward sighed. Alexander rarely kept secrets of this nature, not from him. But, as much as the two bickered and fought, Marigold had always adored her little brother in her own way. He had been summoned down from his study when they were small to find the local schoolteacher escorting the bashful boy and a murderous-looking girl. He had found out then and there that a young tough had tried to call her bluff to take a switch to anyone who picked on her little brother, only to learn that the future Lady Ashford was an utter hellcat at a mere eight years old. Schooling and training were meant to smooth the edges of that, but Alexander clearly believed her capable of dealing his elder colleague serious injury. "You don't think it's malaria at all, do you."
"Officially? I absolutely do. And you really should until we're all safely back home." Alexander binned another pair of gloves and unwrapped a cloth face mask. Edward's jaw dropped slightly as he finally allowed the truth to hit home. "Unofficially, we could have our first Sonnetreppe survivor. We've both had time to read the reports from this past spring. I have a preference for which side of the Atlantic she goes home on, and she made a point of telling me to mind the very nice men will the many large guns whom Uncle Spencer is paying."
Spencer sighed. "James, we've really got to find better outlets for you."
Marcus stood before him at the pavilion, actually wringing his hands in distress. He didn't offer excuses. There really weren't any excuses Spencer seemed about to accept, and Marcus knew it.
No one had said anything, but the sudden shift in demeanor of both Ashfords and Marcus, paired with the conspicuous absence of the young lady Ashford who had been touring the site and learning what she could with interest on a regular basis, made the shape of the situation was obvious enough.
The young lady's negligence and poor luck had caught up to her, though it was lucky that it had manifested where she could be treated properly - if Edward's report on the situation were the whole story. Their continued murderous glances at the cowering Marcus suggested there was a malicious factor in the incident which was going unsaid. Marcus didn't seem to be offering any defense and seemed to know exactly what had happened.
On a venture like this, a personality like Marcus was inevitable. Without a push like an anonymous tip to the dean of a certain university, Marcus would have hoarded data jealously, even from the man who provided his grants, likely to break away and wrap himself in pewter academic glory. Severing that link and letting the man loose in a controlled environment was for the best if his ego could be managed.
For a brief moment he had entertained a scenario where… but no. The odds of survival were so low as to be considered nil. The girl still lived, thus Sonnetroppe was out of the question as a vector. Even the young Mis Trevor had succumbed to a large extent, and her viral strain had been carefully cultivated for the task.
Good students might be valuable, but a foolish genius whose insecurities could be so easily leveraged was priceless.
Marcus, of course, would need a shorter leash in the future. Miss Ashford was indeed quite lucky that his botanist had failed in his attempt on her life, and that the Ashfords, furious as they clearly were, were also pragmatic. This trip was very nearly over, and their preparations at this stage were coming to completion. And soon, thanks to a piece of equipment packed up for the Europe lab and set to fail at a critical moment, the Ashford might cease to be an issue at all.
Marigold's fever broke on the second day- no visitors, no solicitations permitted. If her eyes had taken on a slightly more glacial cast, it was subtle enough to miss through the veil of the relief of her family. As the sun rose on the next new day, the group took a car out to the airfield, their samples packed carefully into a trailing vehicle. The rest could be shipped after, Spencer assured them. He seemed bemused at the situation as a whole. With the weakened and disoriented girl, bundled into the back, the return journey was longer, but Connor managed to make the rough drive as smooth as a newly paved road. The girl smiled wanly in thanks when they reached the airfield, and a business card found its way into the mercenary's hand as they moved to load everyone into the plane as quickly as possible.
Six weeks passed, a vial broke at the worst possible time, and Alexander Ashford watched his father slip away. No malicious cause could ever be proven, and the incident was ruled an accident. The blame largely fell upon the son.
In hindsight, neither of his surviving children should have been surprised.
