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She does look terrible, her skin pale and her body even more frail than usual. I shake my head slowly. “She’s being stubborn.”
Cleo chews on her lip. “Let me try to talk some sense into her.” She steps forward tentatively. “Tanse, can I get that for you—”
“No! I can do it!” Gran barks over her shoulder, followed by more garbling and coughing.
Cleo grimaces and holds her hands up at me in helpless wonder.
I narrow my eyes as I turn my attention back to Gran. A week ago, she would’ve had no problem reaching a bowl on that shelf. Has she shrunk? Or gotten more stooped? Are her frail bones unable to hold her stooped body upright upon the crooked earth any longer?
She doesn’t look any smaller, but it’s hard for someone like me—who sees her every day—to really notice. If there has been a change, it’s been gradual.
Symptoms like these can only mean one thing in a beta, and it’s not something I want to acknowledge…
When her fingers finally grasp hold of the bowl, Cleo, Beth, and I release matching sighs of relief as Gran looks over her shoulder at us, her eyes sparkling with triumph.
At last, it’s over.
The euphoria doesn’t last long, though. Just as she pulls the bowl down, she releases a loud, shuttering sneeze that causes both the bowl and her body to fall to the hard kitchen tile.
13
A Beta's Sickness
Hetty
Cleo and I carry Gran down to the basement, and she fights us the whole way, hissing and spitting orders to return her to the kitchen.
“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” she scolds us when we finally lower her to the bed. But her indignation swiftly disappears when she’s overtaken by another coughing and garbling fit.
I watch worriedly, and when the cough finally slows, I reach for the cup of water on top of the bureau and hold it up to her lips.
“You’re in no shape to work, Gran,” I say gravely. “I think you did something to your wrist.” I steal a worried glance at it, lying swollen and bruised on top of the blanket. “And who knows where else you’re hurt… That was a nasty fall.”
Her skin is even paler than usual when she blinks up at me. “I’m fine,” she says hoarsely, sipping from the cup. “I’m well enough to get up now.”
I look up at Cleo, exchanging a worried glance. She knows what this is, and, deep down, so does Gran.
The beta’s sickness.
Alphas and omegas are strong, and their bodies don’t get infected or weakened in the same way a beta’s does. While I’ve known countless betas who have fallen ill and died of the sickness, only two alphas and one omega were recently struck with a similar illness—and they didn’t come upon it naturally.
Every beta knows that once they catch the sickness, they’re done for.
Cleo backs toward the door slowly before turning on her heels and fleeing the room. I don’t have time to wonder where she went as Gran is overtaken by another coughing fit.
As I soothe her and force more water down her throat, I can’t help but feel sick at the thought of her dying in this dank, dark basement. But I suppose it’s either here or quite literally working her fingers to the bone in service of the Sage family.
“You need to rest, Gran,” I whisper, unshed tears burning the backs of my eyes. “I want you to stay in bed.”
“No!” She presses her thin lips together, her hands shaking like leaves. “I know what you’re thinking. I don’t have the sickness.”
“Well, I didn’t have the sickness last week,” I reply, my voice thick, “and you still made me rest.”
“That was different.”
My tears finally break free, and I can’t suppress a short laugh. “It was not.”
She stifles another cough, reaching out her thin, cold fingers, searching for my hand on top of the blanket. “If I do have the sickness”—she pauses to cough, grasping my hand tightly—“then who’s going to take care of you?”
