Linnet waved back at him—and then leaped into the water with that kind of ferocious joy she had, the fearlessness that propelled her into icy water the very first day, before she even knew how to float.

He woke shaking, heart pounding, face sweaty. For five minutes he couldn’t even think, just lay there staring at the ceiling, telling himself over and over that Linnet was on her way to London. She was safe. She was perfectly safe. His father’s servants were inestimable, trustworthy in every way. He should know how good the duke was at hiring staff. He would trust Prufrock with his life.

The dream is merely the result of the epidemic, he told himself. Imagination running amok because of the condition in the castle. Because of the scarlatina. Because he was an ass.

And yet even as his heart calmed, something was nagging at him . . . something he couldn’t quite remember, something about Linnet. It couldn’t have been said to him. No one had mentioned Linnet’s name since she left. It was as if she had never existed.

Even Sébastien had forgotten her, it seemed.

Only he thought of her, every five minutes or so. He’d be bending over a patient and instead of sloughing skin, he’d see her delicate hand. One morning Nurse Matilda called his name, and he whipped about, thinking it was she.

Mistaking Nurse Matilda’s voice for Linnet’s was just short of a sign of impending insanity.

What was it? What should he remember? Whatever it was, it stayed just out of reach, tormentingly elusive. Something about dancing . . . which was madness. He had never danced in his life.

Finally he turned over and went back to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It was agony to rest on her back, so Linnet rolled to her side, but that was just as bad. She rolled back, and found herself tangled in blankets. They had put blankets on her, so many blankets.

“Water,” she muttered, hearing a voice.

She peered up, seeing a stout figure wavering far above her. He bent down and picked up her wrist. She watched her elevated arm with a kind of fascinated horror. Her skin . . . what was happening to her skin was alarming. Disgusting.

“Of course we could take her to the castle,” came a voice from somewhere . . . somewhere by her feet. “But I have to admit that Mr. Sordido didn’t think the expense and time was justified. After all, we’ve no idea who she is. I’m caring for her at my own expense, doctor. My own expense.”

“The castle,” she tried to croak. But they didn’t seem to hear her. Her throat hurt so, and her tongue didn’t fit in her mouth any longer. “Water,” she tried again.

The man holding her wrist put it down again and straightened up. “She wouldn’t survive the journey, Mrs. Sordido,” he said. “I’m afraid this disease is too strong. Her eyes are open, but she’s clearly not compos mentis. Looking into the other world already, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“She seems a little less hot, though.”

“I’ve found that the fever comes and goes. I might write a treatise on it when this is all done. I’m thinking of it.”

“Oh, yes, you should, doctor. It would be a great help to others, I’m sure.”

“A Treatise on Febrile Diseases,” he said. “Perhaps with a subtitle that ran something like Including the Intermitting, Remitting and Continued Fevers and the Profluvia. I shall report that we’ve had modest success with application of leeches to the poisoned areas, as well as use of rhubarb as a laxative.”

Mrs. Sordido gave a little gasp that seemed to indicate approval.

“Have we heard anything from the duke?” the doctor inquired. “It was a duke who owned that carriage, wasn’t it?”

“That’s what we think from the blazon on the carriage. It will take some time for our man to reach London and bring back news. It’s a plumb shame about the coachman.”

“Buried, is he?”

“Never woke up, not after that first night. Just raving, thinking he was in London. We buried him straight off. Mr. Sordido didn’t see any point in waiting.”

“This woman can’t be a lady,” the doctor said thoughtfully. “She’s traveling without a maid, or luggage of any sort, and just look at that chemise she’s wearing. I expect she’s a maid in the duke’s household, or a servant of some sort. You’re very kind to look after her so, Mrs. Sordido. There’s many an innkeeper who wouldn’t bother.”

“She’s in no one’s way. This old chicken coop was just sitting about,” Mrs. Sordido said modestly. “I send the scullery maid morning and evening to offer water, just as you said.”

“It’s not as if she could complain of the smell from the chickens,” the doctor said. “It’s a rank disease.”

“Terrible swollen, isn’t she?” Mrs. Sordido said. “And what’s that running from her ear, doctor?”

The doctor’s face loomed closer to Linnet. “Fetid liquid,” he said, straightening up. “There’s nothing that can be done here, Mrs. Sordido. You can assure yourself that you’ve done your Christian duty by these poor travelers.”

“Do come out into the fresh air, doctor,” Mrs. Sordido said, her footsteps echoing on the wooden floor as she walked toward the door. She stirred up little swirls of dirt that floated before Linnet’s eyes like fairy dust.

The doctor straightened and turned to leave as well. “I’ve no doubt but that the duke will reward you for your care.”

“Yes, but Mr. Sordido isn’t happy with having her here. Nor with me coming in the coop with you, I have to tell you, doctor. But I told him that I would have you visit her one more time, because I don’t want her death on my conscience.”

“You did right, you certainly did,” the doctor said heartily. “Phew, it is rank in here, isn’t it?”

“No,” Linnet said, struggling so that she almost sat up. “No, please!”

She saw dimly that Mrs. Sordido had paused at the door. “What’s happening to her now, doctor?”

“Seizure, I expect,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Come along, madam. We’ve tried all that’s humanly possible, and now we should just consign her soul to God. In fact, you might want to alert the minister.”

“Oh, I couldn’t bring the minister out just for a . . .” Her voice died away.

Trembling, Linnet brought her hand to her face. It wavered before her eyes. How long had she been here? It felt like weeks . . . months.

Slowly, slowly, she moved her hand to the glass next to her pallet, and managed to bring it to her lips. It flowed into her mouth, cool and lovely. But a moment later she realized that she had forgotten to swallow, and now her neck was wet.

She tried again, and the water sloshed against her nose. A tear trickled down her cheek.

She could feel heat lurking, coming back. Water, she thought. This time she managed to swallow. But when she put the glass back on the floor, next to her pallet, it rolled on its side, and the rest of the water poured onto the dirt floor.

No more water. No more water. It beat in her head to the pace of her heartbeat.

The terrible heat was coming now, drawing her back into that feverish whirlpool where she couldn’t hear or see anything. But still, water . . .