Abigail’s eyes widened a little. Even in her misery, she was amazed by the offer. “You’d let me have whiskey?” she marveled.

Evangeline bent to kiss her daughter’s forehead, felt again the fearful heat of the child’s flesh. “Our secret,” she whispered, fighting back tears. This was far, far more frightening than the encounter with the wolf or any other peril of the wilderness could ever have been, but she dared not show that she was afraid. “Whiskey can be used for medicine, in very special circumstances. It will help you sleep and make your chest feel better.”

Abigail remained worried. “Will it turn me mean-spirited, like Mott?”

So the child had noticed Mott’s drinking. Common enough before Charles’s passing, it had gotten much worse afterward. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she knew, for Abigail missed very little. “No, sweetheart. I promise you, you’ll never be like Mott. Not even if you drink whiskey.”

Abigail considered, then nodded her assent. Even in her extremity, the child was in firm control of her fate, at least, insofar as possible, given the threat this illness might present. Evangeline prayed the child hadn’t guessed, hadn’t seen through her own motherly attempt to put a brave face on things.

Evangeline’s hands shook as she mixed honey and a few drops of whiskey with hot water ladled out of the reservoir. She took a few moments to steady herself, there by the stove, before assembling another smile, this one a little less shaky than the last, from the feel of it, before going back to Abigail’s bedside.

Hortense had curled up on the little girl’s stomach, wrapping herself in her tail and purring. Evangeline shooed the kitten gently aside and sat on the edge of the bed again. The concoction was very hot, so she set it down on the lid of her trunk to cool for a few minutes.

“Would you like me to read you a story?” she asked. There would be little she could do for Abigail, if this fever turned out to be serious, but she would surely go mad if she couldn’t do something.

Abigail only looked at her listlessly; speaking was too much of an effort, or perhaps too painful.

Scully, Evangeline thought, come back. Please come back.

Evangeline propped Abigail up with pillows, as her breathing began to grow labored, and spooned the whiskey-and-honey mixture into her mouth in the same way she’d once given her pablum. The snow, meanwhile, drifted peacefully past the windows, the flakes fat and pristine and unbearably beautiful, blanketing the ground.

Presently, Abigail nodded off, and Evangeline went to the other end of the house, there to set the cup down and stare out a window, willing herself not to break down and cry. If she did, Abigail would know. Somehow, she would know, and be afraid. Weeping was a luxury Evangeline could not afford.

She returned to the bed, when she had control of her emotions, and stretched out beside Abigail, after sliding fully-clothed beneath the covers. She gathered the child into her arms and held on for dear life, her own as well as Abigail’s.