I thrash in the bed. Why do they talk about me so, as if I am not here? Do they think I am dead? With enormous effort I open my eyes. The light plunges into them like hot knives, but before I close them again I see Weed and Father standing shoulder to shoulder at the foot of the bed, shielding themselves from me. Their voices sink to hushed whispers; I can scarcely make out the words.

“Here; I have prepared a tincture of catnip and hyssop for the fever; cinnamon to fight any infection, boiled mallow roots as a tonic, cloves to purify the blood, hawthorn to strengthen her heart—do you agree?”

After a moment, a low, hoarse reply: “It will not do any harm. I am without any further knowledge in this matter. Sir, please do as you think best.”

A pause.

“Very well. Give her one spoonful every ten minutes. She may not care for the taste, but it cannot be helped.”

The door closes. Father has left the room, I can sense it. Weed’s weight settles on the edge of the bed. Reflexively I curl toward him, like a sunflower bending toward the sun.

“Take this,” he pleads. “It is medicine, to cure you. Just one spoonful, my dear one.”

I obey. It is thick and tastes of sour milk, kerosene, sulfur, mold—the vile, oily mixture gurgles down my throat. I am too weak to gag.

“Is it awful?”

I shake my head no, and force my cracked lips into an imperceptible smile.

“Let it make you better,” Weed urges.

“I will.” I half open my eyes, ignoring the stabbing pain that results. “See? I am stronger already.”

He looks at me as if I am dying.

I love you, I tell him without words.

“Jessamine,” he says sadly. “Oh, my poor Jessamine. What have I done to you?”

Time passes, unmeasured. My illness persists. The fever comes and goes; I can tell from the dull pressure inside my skull as it rises, and the way I shiver and shake with chills when it recedes. When the fever is at its worst, my mind overflows with strange, blurred images.

Sometimes I think I can see figures out of the corners of my eyes. When I turn my head to look, they vanish. Only the sounds remain: the whir of beating wings, a soft creak of tree branches in the wind, a low hum that rises and falls like the swell of murmuring voices.

There are other voices, too:

The medicine is not working.

Obviously it is not! If you have a better suggestion I would appreciate hearing it.

I am sorry. I wish I could be of some help, but I have none to offer.

That is hardly sufficient.

Father is in a rage; I listen to him bellow: