Gaelan glanced at the leather pouch, still clutched in his hand. Dare he try it on her? Take the risk and pray it saved her life? She would not survive the sweat, that much was certain. Yet, she had already been in a weakened condition and too many uncertainties loomed with the new preparation. And was he not about to inject the stricken men, now coughing through every breath as they lay on their cots? What of the risks to them?
No doubt, Caitrin showed the signs: the sweating, the quaking chills; her hands and face were feverish. She would be the one to pay the price for his indecisiveness. Gently, he carried her back to the flat, settling her in his bed, where she now lay still and pale. “Caitrin, can you hear me?”
She nodded weakly, her gaze glassy as polished marble.
“Does your head hurt?”
“It feels . . . it will explode at any moment . . . I fear,” she gasped, each word punctuated with a shallow breath.
“I have a medicine that might work to . . . but I must be certain . . . I shall be but a moment.”
“No! Do not go! My God! My fingers—they burn and prick. I can scarce feel them.”
Gaelan took gentle hold of her hand. It was red and hot as flame. Her breathing had deteriorated. The progress of the illness was so rapid as to defy comprehension.
He needed his notes. He must read through them one last time—to have no doubt he was doing the right thing by her. “I’ll return in a moment’s time. I promise.” With all haste, Gaelan took the stairs up to his laboratory two at a time and fell into his chair while locating the needed entry in Grandpapa’s journal.
For many who fall prey to the sweating sickness, it comes on with the fury of a dragon—sudden, unrelenting, breathing fire. He might be in perfect health one moment and deathly in the next. Gone to bed fit and fine, he might awaken suddenly, the sweating so profuse as to soak the bedclothes and bedding. The sweat seems to flow from the body as if all the pores of the skin opened into streams.
There attends the sufferer a sense of dread, terrified of demons only he can see. The heart beats hard and very swift, so much so, I fear it will seize and give out at any moment. I see this over and over as the dragon breathes, stealing its victims’ dying gasps to fuel its own fire. There are few instances here thus far, yet I fear with all my being that it shall consume the English border and find its way to Edinburgh. I shall take the risk that needs be taken and inoculate the court, at the very least to stem the tide ‘ere it reaches our fair capital. As for the regions to the east and south, nearer the border, I shall rely upon our friends at Dernwode House and prevail upon them to dispense what I carry to them myself, as they are the first outpost on the Scottish frontier of this most deadly battle.
Gaelan read to the end of the page by candlelight as he made his way down to the flat, reviewing one last time the disease’s progress and first signs of imminent death. The delirium, the dizziness, the breathing. The blisters. And now the tingling sensations. All appeared in Caitrin in the exact order described.
By the time Gaelan returned to her side, she was drenched, almost as if she’d been immersed in a vat of water. Damnation. Why did not have her drink the salt tonic? The bedding was sodden, and her clothing. Small droplets of water had appeared on her bare arms. No, these were not beads of sweat, but small blisters. They were clear, not red, like a rash or the pox. Yes, the blisters. These, too, were part of the pattern as described in Grandpapa’s notes.
He poured a tumbler of the salt elixir, but she would not open her parched lips to sip. If this ailment was not sudor anglicus, the treatment alone may well kill her. And it would be his fault, his arrogance—as if he’d murdered her himself. He tried to dismiss the idea so he might concentrate on the task at hand.
If he believed in God, Gaelan would have prayed for the wisdom to do what was right, but God had betrayed him more than two centuries before. He had only to rely upon his skill and the knowledge of those who came before him—and the strange recipes of the ouroboros book, which had well served his father, his grandfather, and all before them.
He took hold of Caitrin’s hand, his fingers settled on the inside of her wrist. The pulse throbbed against his hand, nearly one beat atop the next.
“Caitrin.”
Her eyes remained closed, as if she had not heard, her breaths shallow, rapid puffs. There was no more time to lose; if he was going to do it, he must administer the medicine immediately.
“Caitrin,” he repeated, holding up the device. “With this, I believe I can make you better. Do you understand?”
Her eyes fluttered open, a vacant stare, going wide as Gaelan showed her the glass and metal injecting device. “Do you understand?” he repeated. “I cannot guarantee . . . I have never tried . . . But if I do nothing—”
She nodded, her lips pursed into a tight line. “I . . . I . . . trust you,” she breathed, each word an effort. Her eyes once again closed; the shivering had recommenced.
If this failed, if Caitrin were to die, Kinston would surely learn of it. And Gaelan would answer for it, not with his life—that was an impossibility—but with a fate much worse. He had no doubt Lord Kinston was the most vengeful of creatures.
Yet, had he any choice here . . . and now?
He drew up a small amount of the liquid into the inoculation device, but where to make the injection? Jenner used the arm to place his smallpox vaccine, but would it be correct for this disease? Or did it not matter where?
Gaelan sought for a spot where there were no blisters and eased in the sharp tip, ignoring the small amount of blood that seeped around the tool’s metal. He released the lever and pushed the upper part of the glass through the tube slowly, observing as the liquid rose into a small bubble beneath the skin.
Removing the device, he wiped away the blood and waited. Gaelan listened through the open door of the flat for any sound from down below in the shop, hoping the two men in the examining room might remain asleep for now. Do not die yet; it is all I ask. Hold on but a while longer.
Nothing but silence but for the clip-clop of hooves and the dull, uneven roar of wooden wheels upon the cobblestones in the street below the window. Every few moments the rhythm was interrupted by a distant shout for help—a call for the undertakers. Not a good sign at all. He stared at his watch as it ticked off the seconds, each an eternity, so loud in the quiet of the room, he could swear it would echo throughout all London.
Restless, Gaelan paced the room one end to the other, pausing at the window to glance down into the market. Few were out and about.
Minutes passed: five, ten, fifteen. He stared at Caitrin until his eyes burned and she was a blur of color and ragged breaths. She coughed and with it, her entire body shook, followed by long, gasping, noisy breaths.
Thirty-four minutes passed, and Caitrin sat up in the bed.
“What happened? I—Where am I?” Her voice was strong; her breathing seemed less distressed.
Gaelan placed a calming hand on her arm, easing her back against the pillows. “You fell quite ill, nearly took a tumble down the stairs. Do you not recall?”
“No, I don’t. I was . . . here. No . . . in the sitting room. Then . . . ? I am . . . don’t . . . what happened?”
“You swooned, and I’ve given you a medicine that should put it to rights, but you must not stand. Not yet.” He handed her the tumbler of salt tonic. “Drink this. It will help you regain your strength.”
“I do not . . . Is it . . . is it the same . . . the illness . . . as what I had . . . I mean—”
“No, it is not. As I mentioned before, there is a pestilence spreading over London. Just at its start, I believe. I fear it shall become epidemic. You were stricken by it, nearly succumbed to it. The medicine I gave you . . . should work. Already has begun. At least I believe it so.”
Her eyes closed again. “I am quite fatigued and should like to sleep, if that is all right.”
“Finish the contents in the cup, and then you may rest. Both are important.”
He e
yed the leather bag. He would try it on the men down in the shop. If it worked with them . . .
Sally Mills awaited him as he came down from the flat; she was agitated, pacing, her hands gripped into tight fists. Her worried gaze darted from the window to the examining room and back to Gaelan.
“What is it, Mrs. Mills? Are there others fallen ill?”
“So many more, so many sick at the Owl. What to do? What to do?”
Gaelan glanced toward the examining room. No sound but the rasping of two patients came through the curtain.
Gaelan placed the leather bag on the countertop. He ushered her over to a chair.
“Sit for a while, then, Mrs. Mills. I’ve a medicine I believe will help, though I have only tried it on one so far. I’ve two asleep in the examining room, and after I administer it them, we both shall see. Then I shall fly forthwith to the White Owl and do what I might. That is all I can promise.”
She nodded, tears streaming down her round, reddened cheeks. “Have you never seen anything of its like, Mr. Erceldoune?”
“No.” It was the simplest answer, if not the most honest. “Forgive me a moment.” Gaelan handed her a handkerchief and went through to the examining room.
The men had been quiet the entire time Gaelan had been upstairs, but their rest, it seemed, had been fitful as they thrashed and flailed about. Who knew what visions they wrestled in their dreams? A twitch, a gasp, their hands reaching out from deep within their sleep. One muttered quietly, whispering to one only he could see.
They had endured the symptoms many hours by now—longer than had Caitrin. Yet they seemed no worse than she had after only just a few minutes. Was there a point, then, in the course of the illness when a status quo might be maintained—until it entered a deadlier phase?
Would the injection be effective in all cases or only just at the start? Yes, Caitrin had only just fallen ill, but was already in a weakened condition. Gaelan knew that fevers affected different people differently. There were yet very many questions he could not answer, nor his grandfather’s notes had explained, but he could not delay a moment longer. He knew nothing in medicine was ever a certainty. And if what Sally Mills had reported was close to the truth . . . ?
He sucked in a breath and repeated the procedure used on Caitrin, and, minding his pocket watch, waited. The first opened his eyes in twenty-three minutes, confused as to what he was doing in a sodden cot and not in his own bed.
“You’ve been ill, sir, but you need to rest a while more. I shall see to changing the bedding, and you will be much more comfortable.” Gaelan handed him a bottle with the salt solution, admonishing him to drink it all.
The other one was much older, and Gaelan was unsure if anything would help him at this point. He cursed himself for not better understanding the intricacies of the ouroboros book better, and on his own—not relying upon notes written centuries ago by men of limited knowledge by modern standards.
Had he been more skilled, wiser, he might better comprehend the nuances of the dosing. What if it was too much? Too little? Too early? Too late? The answers had to be there, if only he might see them.
And what if the turn for the better was but fleeting and . . . Gaelan heard the gasp, as the elderly man began to cough. Clear, frothy liquid poured from his mouth as he tried to sit up, as if half-drowned. Gaelan leapt to his side, helping him to sit, and held a cloth beneath his chin. The fluid was now tinged with blood as the coughing did not abate.
“Easy, now. Try to take a breath, but not too deeply.” Gaelan rubbed the man’s back in large circles, hoping it would ease the attack and calm him. His breathing slowed, and the coughing along with it. The fluid turned once again clear. “That’s good. Like that. Slow, steady breaths. Just like that, now.” Gaelan gathered more blankets to set beneath the heads of the ailing men.
Another half hour and the man seemed much improved, though still quite feverish, whether from the vigor of the coughing attack or the illness Gaelan had no idea.
But he’d done it. The experiment had been a success. And now to face the horror that undoubtedly lay beyond his threshold. He shivered at the thought.
“I must be off for a bit, gentlemen. Mrs. Mills from the White Owl is beyond that curtain. Call out for her should you require anything or you take a turn. She will be in shortly to see to your comfort. He placed a large bottle of the salt tonic beside each cot. “I would admonish you to drink—all of it. Small sips, but finish it.”
He did not wait for them to respond.
Sally Mills stood at the window, peering into the street. “I went back there, Mr. Erceldoune. To the Owl. Couldn’t help myself.” She was white with fear, shaking her head slowly side to side, muttering under her breath. When she again spoke it was as if from within a dream. “Couldn’t help myself, y’see. Needed to find . . . Didn’t want to believe . . . You were taking god-awful long in there, and I went back. I went back. I—”
Gaelan blew out a sharp breath and ushered her to a chair. He kneeled before her, taking both her hands in his. She was shaking, though not from fever. He addressed her as gently as he would a small child. “Mrs. Mills. You must listen to me—”
She turned her gaze on him, her eyes red-rimmed. “All gone. All of ‘em. Dead. How’s it possible when last night they’s all drinkin’ and eatin’ . . . ? It’s as if the Owl herself’s been possessed of an evil that—”
“Not an evil, an illness. A dragon of a pestilence, but one that might be van . . .” He couldn’t say it. Not to her. “Are you certain they are dead? All your customers? All? Perhaps they are only ill. Then I might yet—”
“Up in the rooms, they’re all blue-faces, eyes like smoke and glass, just starin’, damning me for—”
“It is not your fault, Mrs. Mills. This disease, it is like none I’ve ever seen. Swift and merciless, it is. I will, myself, go to the Owl and see if there is anything to be done.”
Did Sally really see what she thought she had? Or was she afflicted, and this was the start of it—the delirium? The panic.
“Mrs. Mills, if you would be so kind to look in on the men convalescing behind that curtain. Insist they drink up the contents of the bottles I’ve left with them. It is of great importance they do so. Not too quickly, mind, but all of it. And within the hour, by which time I hope to have returned.”
Gaelan collected his leather bag, assuring himself the vials, the injector, and other needed items were packed securely. “If any should come here seeking me, tell them I shall be back soon as I can, but do not—under any circumstance—come to find me at the Owl. Do you understand? If any require an item from the shop’s shelves, you may give them, but do not trouble yourself with collecting monies. I will see to it later. All right?”
She nodded tentatively, still shaking. Galen put a hand on her shoulder. “Do not worry yourself, Mrs. Mills. I shall see to the Owl.”
If Sally Mills was even half-right about what she’d seen, he would be far too late.
CHICAGO, PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 33
“So. How goes the research? Any progress with that new cell line?”
Alcott. She’d barely made it to the lab when her mobile went off.
She struggled to keep her suspicions well under wraps. For now. “No. Not yet. It’s only been—”
Anne’s first task of the day was to prepare Gaelan’s blood sample for closer examination, hoping that what she suspected was merely a giant illogical leap, easily disprovable. Allay her fears—then she could get on with it, use the enhanced cell line provided by Alcott’s friend to treat Erin and see if she had in her hands the unlikely Nobel-laureate-worthy miracle of an easy cure to a fatal disease. “Hey. I don’t mean to pressure you. Just asking.”
Bollocks. She breathed, inhaling slowly, and then again, for all the good it did. Her knuckles had gone completely white as she gripped her mobile. “Sorry. I’m a bit under the gun here . . . Look, actually, I may be onto something. With the cell line, I mean. Tell your . . . fri
end . . . ‘good work on that.’ What was his name again?”
“I don’t think I ever said. Let’s just say it prefers to remain anonymous.”
“I’d really like to . . .” Why bother? Time enough later. “Might I give you a ring later, when I know something more definitive?”
“Dinner?”
“Perhaps another time.” Perhaps never. Not. Ever.
“Look, there are some folks I’d like you to meet. They are very much interested in your research. Its practical application. Venture capitalists. Not really friends, more colleagues, you’d say. Funded my first project—and bought into every one since then. And some tech people in your field. They’re anxious to meet you too.”
The knot in her stomach tightened another notch. I’ll bet they are. “Like your friend Mr. Anonymous?”
“Possibly.”
“Maybe at the end of all this. If I can find a way to treat Erin—”
“Fair ‘nough.”
She sighed; this was far from the end. Carefully, she drew the small Styrofoam sample box from her messenger bag, fetching the tubes from within the nest of dry ice packs. She had to sequence the DNA, analyze the telomere region, an expensive proposition—and out of view of Preston Alcott. She hated to ask Dana again, but she didn’t see much choice.
As if on cue, Dana appeared at the lab door, bearing two coffees. “Leave it to a Chicago June. One hundred degrees one day, fifty the next. Pretty crazy how the temp dropped yesterday afternoon, though. One café noisette for you. One for me.”
“Yeah. Thanks for the coffee. You don’t have any sweets possibly . . . ?”
She pulled out a brown paper bag, raising an eyebrow. “Hazelnut croissants.”
Anne smiled.
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