Gently Mercy lowered the girl, whose limbs flopped about, her strength and life all but gone. Mercy dropped to her knees beside the cot and caressed Clara’s cheek and forehead, brushing back strands of matted hair. The girl’s dirty face was shriveled, her eyes shrunken, her lips cracked.

“Don’t you leave me, dear heart. The kind doctor will fix you up. I promise.”

Thankfully, the doctor didn’t delay and instead crossed to them quickly. He knelt on the opposite side of the cot and checked the infant’s pulse, an air of urgency emanating from every brisk movement he made. “What are your daughter’s symptoms?” he asked as he lifted first one eyelid and then the other.

“She’s not . . .” Clara wasn’t Mercy’s daughter. Yes, they shared the same blond hair. But couldn’t the doctor see Mercy wasn’t wearing a wedding band?

As soon as she asked the silent question, she chastised herself. A wedding band wasn’t necessary to have children, especially not where she came from. This doctor apparently knew it too.

He placed an instrument against Clara’s chest. “Her symptoms?”

“She can’t keep anything down, sir. No liquids or solids. It all comes out one way or the other.”

The doctor rose so suddenly that Mercy started. “How long has she had the vomiting and diarrhea?”

“It began last night—”

“And you are just now bringing her in?” Irritation edged his voice.

“I’d have brought her earlier if I’d known, sir,” Mercy replied. If only Clara’s mother had thought to call for her sooner.

“Fever?”

“Come and gone.”

The doctor muttered something under his breath as he rummaged through supplies in a chest. He returned with a teaspoon and a small brown vial. “I would normally suggest having the child drink a mild solution of salt and warm water until the poison is eliminated and vomit runs clear.”

“Poison, sir?”

“Her symptoms point to cholera infantum.”

A chill crept up Mercy’s spine. Most people called it summer diarrhea because it occurred in the summer months when the heat made the foulness of streets and ditches almost unbearable. She’d watched helplessly last August as a dozen little ones in her neighborhood had wasted away, including her own baby brother.

“That cannot be it, sir,” Mercy said. “It’s not summer yet.”

“Cholera infantum can strike at any time of the year.” The doctor unscrewed the lid on the brown bottle and poured a scant amount into the spoon. “The condition is related to tainted food, possibly spoiled milk.”

Mercy used her fingers to comb back Clara’s hair. Milk was rare in the slums. Had Clara’s mother found some? If so, she’d have given the treat to the girl expecting it to nourish, not poison, her.

“Raise her head,” he instructed.

Mercy lifted Clara’s body.