"Yes, Papa. I don't feel good."

"I know. But you will be pulling on Meggie's hair again in no time at all." He hugged his son against him, then laid his palm against his cheek.

Tysen then lightly touched his palm to Mary Rose's cheek. Much cooler than his son's. "It will be all right. I'm going to fetch Dr. Dreyfus. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Tysen had never moved so fast in his life. He didn't realize that Meggie was trotting beside him he was so locked into himself, so frightened he wanted to curse loud and long to keep the awful fear at bay.

"He will be all right, Papa, you'll see." Meggie was panting, running now, and everyone got out of their way. They arrived at Dr. Dreyfus's cottage in just under seven minutes, out of breath, nearly beside themselves.

Dr. Dreyfus, Mrs. Midderd told them, was seeing to the Clay boy, no, not the fever, none of those this week, thank the good Lord, and thank you, Vicar, for all your prayers. No, the Clay boy had broken his leg, something very very serious.

"How long as he been gone, Mrs. Midderd?"

"At least three hours, Vicar. What is the matter?"

"It is my son, Rory. He has the fever."

Mrs. Midderd, a former Catholic, converted to the Anglican church upon her marriage to Mr. Midderd some thirty years before, crossed herself.

"I will send him to you immediately upon his return, Vicar."

Back at the Vicarage, both Tysen and Meggie stood at the end of Rory's bed watching Mary Rose bathe his small face. He was flushed, he whispered to his mother that his bones ached as he clutched her hand.

It was nearly another hour before Dr. Dreyfus walked into Rory's small bedroom, the longest hour of Tysen's life. Meggie hadn't moved from the other side of Rory's bed, holding the little boy's hand, speaking quietly to him. As for Tysen, he'd sent Alec with Leo to Northcliffe Hall. Why hadn't he sent both of them? No, he as the vicar, couldn't very well send his own children out of harm's way when no one else had that luxury. Because of his idiotic sense of what was proper, he might lose his son. He was a fool.

Dr. Dreyfus's large hand was on Rory's forehead, then he was sitting beside him, his ear to his chest.

When he looked up, he saw the corrosive fear on the vicar's face, and slowly nodded. "I have some laudanum for him. It will keep him comfortable. But the fever, Vicar, it will climb and climb, so we must keep it down as best we can." He rose and took both Mary Rose's and Tysen's hands. "Listen to me. We can pull him through. The Dixon girl survived it, so can Rory. Now, first things first. Let's give him the laudanum, then begin wiping him down."

It was near dawn; Meggie was sitting beside Rory, having taken over from her father an hour earlier. Mary Rose was asleep on a small cot that Tysen had brought into Rory's room. She looked frightened even in sleep, all stiff, her hands clenching and unclenching.

There had been other illnesses in Rory's young life, but none so frightening as this one.

Meggie felt Rory's cheeks. He was not quite so hot to the touch, she was sure of it. Then he was trembling, jerking about, shoving his covers off. "No, no, baby, don't do that." His teeth were chattering. "Oh goodness, you're freezing now, aren't you? Don't worry, baby, I'm here and I'll take care of you."

Meggie shrugged out of her soft warm velvet dressing gown and wrapped Rory in it. Then she got into his small bed and pulled him close. She whispered to him even as she stroked her hands up and down his small back. Suddenly he stiffened, moaned, and became perfectly still.

Oh God.

Meggie very nearly yelled, then, suddenly, she felt him jerk, heave in on himself, and he was breathing once again, shallow spiking breaths. She was crying now, holding him so close to her heart, so afraid, so very afraid. She was rubbing his back as she said over and over, "No, Rory, hang on, I know you can do it. Breathe, baby, breathe."

He was fighting for every breath now, wheezing. Oh, God, no. No.

"Meggie, what is it?"

Meggie didn't know how she managed it, but she said very quietly, "Mary Rose, get Papa. It's bad, really bad. Go, hurry. Send someone for Dr. Dreyfus."

Mary Rose stuffed her fist in her mouth and ran from the small room. When they returned, Tysen eased down and gently pulled Rory into his arms.

"He just stops breathing, Papa. Then when you think it's over, he manages to draw in a bit more air. He can't go on like this."

Tysen didn't look up. He just held his precious boy against him and willed him to breathe. Then he rose and carried him to the rocking chair that he himself had made for Mary Rose when Alec was born. Meggie and Mary Rose sat on the bed, watching the father and the vicar hold his child. Tysen rubbed the palm of his hand over his son's chest, pressing in, then out, trying to help him breathe. He knew he should send for Dr. Dreyfus. He also knew that he couldn't do anything for Rory that hadn't already been done. Rory would either survive this or he wouldn't. Tysen pressed and massaged his son's chest, over and over, and spoke to him, encouraging him, and he prayed; he, the vicar, was making agreements with God. If he could have, he would have freely offered his soul if the Devil had but come to bargain.

Mary Rose took Meggie's hand. "He can't die, Meggie, he just can't."

Meggie nodded, words beyond her. She didn't want to cry, it would gain naught. They sat together until the sun came up, until shafts of soft pink slipped beneath the pale cream draperies to bathe the room in dim light.

Samuel Pritchert came to tell them that Dr. Dreyfus's carriage had been thrown on its side and the doctor was in bed, his back wrenched. He couldn't move. He said there was nothing more he could do in any case. He was praying for them, Samuel assured them.

Some minutes later Meggie heard Mrs. Priddle moving about downstairs. Then, quite suddenly, she head a knock on the vicarage door.

Mrs. Priddle was breathless when she stuck her head in Rory's room. "Forgive me, Miss Meggie, it's Lord Lancaster. He says it's very important."

Thomas Malcombe? What could that man possibly want at dawn, for God's sake? She didn't want to hear him again ask her to go riding.

She simply nodded to her father and to Mary Rose and quietly left the room. She stopped by her own bedchamber, pulled on another dressing gown, this one so old the elbows were nearly worn through. She hurried down the stairs. No candle was needed, there was nearly full light now.

He was there, standing in the entrance hall, wearing riding clothes, boots.

Meggie felt no Christian kindness in her heart. "What do you want?"

He merely nodded to her, then walked swiftly to where she stood on the bottom stair. She saw then that he was carrying a small package. He pressed it into her hand. "I have spoken to Dr. Dreyfus. He said to bring this over and give it to Rory, that it couldn't hurt. It's a medicine, one of many that my shipping partner sent me from Genoa, Italy. It's for the fever. Is Rory better?"

"No," Meggie said flatly, and she knew, knew to her heart, "No, I don't think he will get better. What is this?"

She was ripping away the paper. There was a long thin bottle filled to the corked top with a dark brown liquid.

"It's a medicinal root called the maringo. It grows near a river on a lava plateau on the western slopes of Mt. Etna in Sicily. Perhaps it will help Rory. The letter from my man says that this particular root is effective for virulent fevers. Here, Meggie, give it to the boy, quickly, a small drink, that's all that's needed. Then another drink every hour, until-well, until he's better."

Tysen and Mary Rose believed the medicine was from Dr. Dreyfus. Meggie didn't correct them. She managed to get Rory's little mouth open and poured a bit of the brown liquid down his throat, then lightly rubbed his neck with her fingers. He wheezed and coughed even as his teeth chattered and his small body clenched with the violent spasms that were killing him. But he was breathing, little gasps of breath.