Summer, 1505
Valley of Maury, France
Mira
In the still hours before dawn, Mira was tugged awake by a sound, a piteous moan that threaded its way into her consciousness. Drowsily, she sat up, listening in the dark. There it was again, that tiny, insistent moan.
Rose.
She padded across the cool stone floor to Rose’s room and knelt by her bedside. The silver light of a three-quarter moon illuminated Rose’s tiny shape sprawled in the center of the bed. Her nightdress was twisted around her hips, the coverlet bunched around her ankles. Rose’s face glowed with an eerie luminescence in the moonlight. Mira frowned, put her palm to the girl’s forehead; it came away damp with sweat. She rested a hand on Rose’s chest, felt the furious pumping of her heart.
“Arnaud!” A jolt of terror overtook Mira. “Rose has a fever.”
In a moment he was beside her.
“We need bark of the willow,” he said. “I’ll go to the kitchens and wake someone.”
He was back in a few moments. “No one’s about. I’ll go to the servants’ quarters and find a cook.”
“No,” Mira said. “Go to the artist’s house in the field. She has what we need. I know she would share it.”
While he was gone Mira did her best to comfort Rose. She poured water from a ceramic pitcher on a length of linen and folded it into a rectangle, then placed it on Rose’s forehead. She took another cloth, wet it, and wiped Rose’s limbs one by one. The girl lay still, silent except for those occasional tiny moans.
Where was Arnaud? Fear began to leach into Mira’s mind. Fevers in a child this small came on like a quickly burning wildfire; one moment a small glowing ember and the next a towering flame.
Finally he returned with a small bottle and a ceramic jar.
“Bark of the willow and herb salve for her chest.” He thrust the items at Mira.
She cradled Rose in one arm and administered the willow bark syrup.
“Go back to the kitchens and find some watered wine,” she ordered.
He disappeared again. Mira smeared the salve on Rose’s chest, then perched on the edge of the bed, not wanting her own body heat to increase the fever. For the first time since they arrived in this place, tears welled in her eyes. She sat staring at Rose as dawn approached, aching to hold the girl in her arms, to rock her and soothe her, to cure her of this agony.
When Arnaud returned and she tried to pour a little watered wine down the girl’s throat, it was no use—Rose thrashed and moaned and spluttered, her breath coming faster and shallower with each passing moment.
Birdsong sounded in the courtyard. Mira realized dawn had bloomed in the sky. Rose’s hair was dark with sweat, her cheeks a brilliant scarlet. Arnaud crossed his arms over his chest, taking in the sight of Rose’s feverish little body with worried eyes.
“She’s so small.” His voice was ragged, barely a whisper.
He sank down on his knees next to the bed.