Free Fever by Lauren DeStefano Page B

have gathered around us and are all laughing or screaming—it’s impossible to know which—and Lilac is running toward us, her skirt billowing out around her in slow motion, and Jared is grabbing Madame’s arms, trying to pull her back. He’s strong, but Madame is a woman possessed. He’s yelling, “You’re going to kill her.” And she’s yelling back, “I know.”
    Maddie folds in on herself, hugging her knees to her chest, her face hidden by her tangled dark hair. If she’s making any more noise, it’s drowned out by all the girls, and by Madame’s cursing and hissing.
    Jared pulls Madame back by the arms, her feet still kicking at the air. Lilac and I kneel by Maddie, who I think for a second is dead, she’s so still.
    “Get her out of here,” Jared is yelling over Madame’s screaming. “Go! I’ll hold her as long as I can.”
    Lilac, trembling with fear or rage, scoops her daughter’s tiny body easily. I grab the lantern from where Jared left it on the ground, and I follow her, running to keep up. But as I turn in the direction of the green tent, Lilac says, “Not there. Madame will find her there.”
    She leads us, running, past the incinerator, which hums so loudly, it shakes my bones. Madame is so proud of that grotesque thing; it’s welded together by street signs and bits of metal that advertise prices for popcorn and something called cotton candy. It makes popping sounds as though something is alive in there, hurling itself against the metal walls.
    Makes ze messes easier to clean , Madame said. She was petting my hair, and her teeth were unnaturally white as she smiled. Nothing but dust.
    What was going through that madwoman’s head when she said those words? Was she thinking that she’d like to throw Maddie inside that machine’s gaping mouth, listen as the child’s screams became nothing but the mechanical popping and humming?
    Her venom might even be worse than Vaughn’s. My father-in-law was cold-blooded. He murdered my sister wife. But his approach was sinister and scheming, an approaching fin in murky water that you wouldn’t see coming until the water had turned red around you. I never saw a fire in his eyes like there was in Madame’s as she pummeled and kicked that little girl. She was enjoying herself. She wanted Maddie dead.
    I’m short of breath, tripping over the ridiculously long sari, but I don’t want to stop moving. I’m afraid that Maddie is dead and that once we stop moving we’ll realize she’s not breathing; she’s so small, her limbs like dark limp weeds hanging over Lilac’s arms.
    We’re past Madame’s gardens now. The grass is waist-high and unruly. Lilac stops and sinks to her knees. “Bring the light over,” she tells me, gasping for breath. I kneel too and hold the lantern over us.
    Maddie’s chest rises and falls. And now that I’m close enough, I can hear her little whimpers and moans.
    “Shh,” Lilac coos, and lays her daughter in the grass. “It’s okay, baby. It’s all right.” Lilac unbuttons the front of Maddie’s threadbare dress, and I wonder how it is that nobody in this place ever wears coats. I suppose the smoke and Jared’s machine have something to do with it, because now that we’re far from Madame’s smoke and the lights of the broken carnival, I’m realizing how cold I am.
    Lilac runs her fingers over her daughter’s ribs and arms, cringing when she causes a cry of pain. She is mumbling angry profane things about Madame, and I see tears brimming in her dark eyes.
    Maddie looks at me, irises the color of moonlight on snow. Almost not enough blue in them to make them stand out from the whites. I want to look away—Maddie’s stares always unnerve me—but I can’t. It’s true that malformed children frighten me; I always stayed away from them in the lab where my parents worked. There’s something faraway about their faces, as though they live in a world the rest of us can’t see. There’s even a popular theory