‘I’ve been checking for it among other types of bumps ever since I fucked some priest,’ Aslan didn’t say.

Instead, he described the thoughts he went through most baths since:

“A coppery rash across the shoulders,” which he would check for when he first stripped and passed the mirror. “Sores in the mouth,” which made him anxious every time he found he’d bitten his cheek again in the night. “Genital ulcers, pustules, certain strong odors that do a man passed of it no favors. Cranial deterioration.”

He glanced to Miss Griffin and refrained from apology. She had mentioned fetid smells, which could refer to anything.

“I imagine if you’ve seen it, Miss Griffin, it was among the still-living.”