Chapter 14:The Winter Fever

Evelyn pov

The frost didn’t just settle on the windowpanes; it crawled through the cracks of the weatherboards like a living thing, thin and pale, creeping into the room where Mrs. Thompson lay.

Every breath she drew sounded like dry twigs snapping underfoot.

I stood by her small iron bed, my toes curled tight inside my leather shoes, trying to keep the numbness from taking them entirely. My small fingers were red at the knuckles, stiffened by the biting draft that whistled under the door. Seven years old, and my knees trembled under the heavy wool of my skirts, but I couldn't pull my hands back into my sleeves. Not yet. Not while the cold was trying to steal the last bit of warmth from her skin.

"Evelyn," she whispered. Her voice was hardly a breath, paper-thin, wrapped in a rattle that made my own chest ache in sympathy.

"I’m here, Mrs. Thompson," I said. I pressed the damp, lukewarm rag against her forehead. The fever inside her burned so hot it turned the water warm in minutes, but the air in the cottage was so bitter my breath billowed out in white clouds every time I spoke.

"The hearth..." Her eyes were milky, clouded with years and sickness, staring up at the low beams of the ceiling as if she could see the sky beyond them. "Don't let... don't let it die, child. Once the fire goes... the dark comes in."

"I won't," I lied.

The hearth was already dying. The black, ash-choked grate held only a few dull embers, blinking like tired red eyes in the shadowy room. Outside, the wind howled through the bare branches of the orchard, a low, miserable moan that sent shivers straight down my spine. The Winter Fever had come to the valley two weeks ago, sweeping through the cottages like a quiet, relentless thief. First it took the children's laughter, then the strength from the old, and now it sat heavily on Mrs. Thompson’s chest, suffocating the only person who had taken me in when my own mother had gone into the cold earth.

I pulled the rag away and plunged it back into the bucket of water beside the bed. Ice had already begun to form a thin, glass-like film around the wooden rim. I shattered it with my knuckles, wincing as the freezing liquid bit into my scraped skin. I wrung the cloth out, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped it on the floorboards.

Think, Evelyn, I told myself, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. She taught you this. You know what to do.

"Elderflower," I murmured under my breath, reciting the lessons she had drilled into me during the warmer months when her voice was clear and her hands were steady. "Elderflower for the sweat. Dried thyme for the cough. Pinch of coarse salt to draw out the poison."

I turned to the small wooden cupboard built into the alcove beside the chimney. My fingers fumbled with the latch, the iron biting cold against my thumbs. Inside sat three small glass jars, their labels written in Mrs. Thompson's faint, slanting script. The thyme was nearly gone—just a few dusty grey flecks clinging to the bottom of the glass. The elderflower jar was empty.

Panic, sharp and icy as the wind outside, pierced through my ribs.

"No, no, no..." I whispered, tipping the glass jar upside down. A single dry leaf fell onto my palm, crumbling into dust before I could even catch it.

I looked back at the bed. Mrs. Thompson shifted, a wet, choking cough tearing through her thin frame. She curled inward, her fingers clutching at the threadbare quilt as if she were drowning.

"Cold..." she rasped. "So cold..."

I couldn't fix the fever without the herbs, but I could fill her stomach. Warm food could give her body something to fight with. I dragged a wooden stool across the floorboards, the scrape echoing too loudly in the quiet room, and climbed up to reach the dry-goods box on the top shelf. Inside lay a small cotton sack of coarse oats, half-eaten by mice, and a knob of hardened lard wrapped in greased paper.

It wasn't much. It was almost nothing. But it had to be enough.

I hauled the heavy iron pot over to the hearth, my arms aching under the weight. My muscles burned, small and useless as they felt, but I refused to let go. I scraped the last handful of dry kindling from the scuttle and laid it over the dying coals, blowing gently until a tiny plume of blue smoke rose into the air.

"Catch," I begged the wood, tears pricking the corners of my eyes, hot and stinging against my frost-chilled cheeks. "Please, just catch."

A tiny orange tongue flickered to life, licking at the bark. I fed it three dry twigs—the very last of our fuel—and placed the pot of water over the flame.

As I dumped the handful of oats into the heating water, stirring slowly with a worn wooden spoon, the smell of damp grain rose to meet me. It smelled like safety. It smelled like the mornings when Mrs. Thompson would sit by the window, her knitting needles clicking a soft rhythm while the sun turned the valley gold.

I wanted that sun back. I wanted her hands to be warm again. I wanted to stop feeling like the world was closing in on us, shrinking down to this one freezing room, this one small fire, this one dying woman.

"Evelyn," her voice cut through the bubbling of the pot. It was clearer now, but thinner, as glass stretched too far.

I set the spoon down and hurried back to her side, kneeling on the cold floor. "I'm making porridge. It's almost ready. It'll warm you up."

She reached out, her fingers trembling violently as she searched the air. I took her hand in both of mine, trying to pour all the life and heat left in my tiny body into her fragile palm. Her skin felt like dried leaves, papery and dry, but hot enough to scald.

"Listen to me," she breathed, her eyes finding mine through the haze of her fever. "If... if the snow doesn't break by tomorrow..."

"It will," I cut in, my voice cracking. "The sky will clear. Mr. Vance will come up the road with the wood wagon."

"He won't come, child," she said softly, a terrible, gentle pity in her cloudy eyes. "The pass is blocked. We are alone."

"No," I shook my head, pressing her hand against my cheek. "No, we aren't."

"In the bottom drawer... of the chest," she gasped, every word costing her a piece of her breath. "Under the linens... a leather pouch. Take it..."

"I don't want a pouch! I want you to eat the porridge!" Tears spilled over my lashes now, cutting warm tracks through the dirt on my face. "You promised you'd teach me how to prune the apple trees in spring! You promised!"

"Evelyn..."

Her hand suddenly went rigid in mine. Her back arched off the mattress, a strange, terrible gasp tearing from her throat as if someone had plunged a knife into her chest. Her eyes opened wide, unseeing, reflecting only the dim, dying flicker of the hearth fire.

"Mrs. Thompson!" I screamed, standing up so fast the wooden stool overturned behind me. "Mrs. Thompson, please!"

A thick, violent rattle echoed in her chest, and then... silence.

Her body went slack, sinking heavy and lifeless back into the feather mattress. Her hand slipped from my grip, falling limply over the edge of the bed, her knuckles brushing the cold floorboards.

"No... no, no, no." I reached out, grabbing her shoulders, shaking her small frame. "Wake up. Please wake up. The porridge is ready!"

Nothing. The air in the room seemed to freeze completely, locking the silence into place.

And then, above the howl of the wind outside, came a sound that made the blood freeze in my veins.

A sharp, heavy knocking at the front door. Three loud, slow thuds that vibrated through the floorboards beneath my bare feet.

It wasn't Mr. Vance. Mr. Vance always pounded fast and yelled through the keyhole. This was slow, deliberate, and heavy.

Through the small window beside the door, framed by the white swirl of the blizzard, I saw a tall, dark silhouette standing on the porch. And wrapped around the latch of the wooden door, sliding slowly inside through the keyhole, was a thin, black line of soot-like smoke that didn't rise—it crawled across the floor straight toward me.