Scarlet Rot Quotes

Her entire life, she’d been told sin was wrong, a black and white interpretation of what is evil and what is holy in the world—colored like a priest’s robe and collar—but she never believed it to be true. Sin was colorful: scarlet like rose blood, azure like skin deprived oxygen, violet as bruises, jade as rot; a colorful contradiction to the darkness and blinding light all are taught sin and holiness to be.

From sunlight and hope to a decaying body in a field of rotting flowers.

The towering cloud unfurled its edge, shoved the sun’s face away and spewed a vile violet light that curdled all colour. The grass greyed, all the dandelions dimmed and bleached, the scarlet lining of his coat rotted to mildew, his hands grew pallid, washed old and deathly, and he felt the cold steal up his legs and swallow him.

Cam … would you do something for me?” “Anything.” “Could you find some of that plant Merripen gave to Win and Leo for the scarlet fever?” He drew back and looked at her. “Deadly nightshade? That wouldn’t work for this, sweetheart.” “But it’s a fever.” “Caused by a septic wound. You have to treat the source of the fever.” His hand went to the back of her neck, soothing the tautly strung muscles. He stared at a distant point on the floor, appearing to think something over. His tangled lashes made shadows over his hazel eyes. “Let’s go have a look at him.” “Do you think you could help him?” Poppy asked, springing to her feet. “Either that, or my efforts will finish him off quickly. Which, at this point, he may not mind.” Lifting Amelia from his lap, Cam set her carefully on her feet, and they proceeded up the stairs. His hand remained at the small of her back, a light but steady support she desperately needed. As they approached Merripen’s room, it occurred to Amelia that Win might still be inside. “Wait,” she said, hastening forward. “Let me go first.” Cam stayed beside the door. Entering the room with caution, Amelia saw that Merripen was alone in the bed. She opened the door wider and gestured for Cam and Poppy to enter. Becoming aware of intruders in the room, Merripen lurched to his side and squinted at them. As soon as he caught sight of Cam, his face contracted in a surly grimace. “Bugger off,” he croaked. Cam smiled pleasantly. “Were you this charming with the doctor? I’ll bet he was falling all over himself to help you.” “Get away from me.” “This may surprise you,” Cam said, “but there’s a long list of things I’d prefer to look at rather than your rotting carcass. For your family’s sake, however, I’m willing. Turn over.” Merripen eased his front to the mattress and said something in Romany that sounded extremely foul. “You, too,” Cam said equably.

Horror on horror, waxy, sweating, gashed, on all sides were dead chunks of flesh on which some livid parasite bloomed and spread, the scarlet ropes and strings of half a pinched ascetic face, a thorax spilling all its fruit in rotting tropical brilliance, greens, speckled purples and umbers. And in the gloom that smelt of mould, a tray, an egg, the egg dividing, dividing again, budding, growing, hollowing itself, mad to begin its life, and ending round, pitted, a golf ball. But not lost, carried then to the wall cases, injected into the seven wombs, growing still, larger, involuting, adding a cord, hanging, the flesh yielding in livid wax sprinkled with sparse discoloured hairs.