I informed him I had treated my initial case on the first day of the New Year.

Quite the omen, he said. And how is your technique different from that of the other physicians and surgeons?

I do not believe it is, Your Grace, I said. My approach is the same as it has always been. We healers understand that the key to health lies in the balance of the humors. This plague disrupts that balance in the worst of manners. I strive to restore it where I can.

You bleed the sufferers, then? the Archbishop asked.

That is only one technique. There are several vital ways to restore the humors. Cool the overheated with wet compresses. Warm the chilled with fires. Force water and wine into those who have sweated or vomited away too much of their essential fluids. And so on.

The Archbishop tilted his head. And you have seen this approach succeed?

Only in a precious few, I conceded. You see, Your Grace, this plague comes in two forms that are so distinct from one another it is as though they are entirely different illnesses.

Do tell, the Archbishop commanded with a roll of his hand.

The first form is a skin ailment with the agonizing sores and discolored sacs we refer to as buboes. In my experience, two out of three of those inflicted in such a way will eventually die, usually in three or four days to a week at most. With these patients, I have found that an aggressive attack on the buboes by lancing them early and filling them with hostile salves can prove beneficial.

And the other form?

The chest plague, I said, and the words alone tasted bitter on my tongue. This form strikes the lungs with lightning speed. The afflicted rapidly proceeds from a state of good health to complete infirmity. Inevitably, the sufferer is coughing up his final blood-soaked breaths within a day or two, sometimes hours, of the initial symptom. No one escapes the grip of the chest plague with his life.

As I described the pestilence, I could not help but remember my own Camilla. How desperately I had cradled her in those final hours. Her chest rattled with such a cough that it reminded me of a windstorm tearing through an unshuttered house. As I watched the life drain from her soulful eyes, I could not imagine feeling more helpless or useless.

And yet you are still well, the Archbishop said.

So far, yes.

The Archbishop motioned with his hands as if to free a small bird. I can hardly dispatch a priest to offer last rites without learning later that he, too, has contracted the plague, he said. Yet you work day and night with the afflicted and have managed to completely avoid either form of the illness.

His tone was pleasant enough, but discomfort welled within me.

He leaned forward in his chair. What is your secret, Doctor?

I have no explanation for my good fortune, Your Grace. I can only thank God for every single day of good health he grants me.