Chapter 39
Nora leaned against the door of the water closet, trying to still her trembling.
Not immune.
Years of tedious conjecture answered by one session in the water closet.
She needed fluids. Quickly, because if she sickened further, there was no one to dose her—not until Sarah returned, and she should have come back hours ago.
Nora shut her eyes, unwilling to consider where Sarah might be or what had detained her. She could not allow her imagination to conjure up one more disaster.
Navigating by feel—it was too dark now to see—she slipped back into the hall, took another step, then doubled over, hands clasped at her middle. Her head felt like a grape, squeezed between finger and thumb, ready to burst.
“Miss Pritchard?” she called, voice already hoarse. She hadn’t heard a sound from the other room in too long, but she hadn’t been able to leave the toilet for at least an hour. Her intestines must be entirely vacated now.
She recalled voices like this—her mother’s and grandmother’s, frayed and breaking; a raspy sawing that replaced her young brother’s cry. She couldn’t remember any of them dying, but their ghostly groans came back, echoing in her pounding head. Her back ran cold and slick with sweat.
“Pritchard?” she tried again, but couldn’t muster enough volume to breach the long hallway.
Drink first. You’ll be louder after wetting your throat.
Pushing upright, she hobbled to Aunt Wilcox’s bedroom, one hand braced on the wall. She’d needed to make more solution. Aunt’s color was still better than before the transfusion, even after the passing of so many hours.
Aunt stirred, clutching at the handkerchief in her mouth. Nora wetted it again, then gulped all the remaining broth. The wineglass was empty.
A wave of cramps shook her. Nora dropped to her knees beside the bed, head pressed against the mattress. Even if she mixed more Latta’s solution and downed it all, what would this disease do to her baby?
“Don’t give up,” she rasped, and reached for the washbasin.
She’d dipped her hands several times into the cold, dirty water.
She shouldn’t drink it—cold water was forbidden—but she had nothing else, and venturing to the kitchen was impossible.
Hands shaking, she poured in salt and bicarbonate, spilling bits of both on the carpet.
Mrs. Phipps had said spilling salt brought bad luck, but it was too late for that.
Her mouth was as dry as dust. No way to tell if she’d managed the ratio, but the solution was wet and cooling against her papery throat. Nora took four gulps, then sat back, leaning against the bed, taking deep breaths, fighting to keep her roiling middle from expelling everything.
“Aunt Wilcox?” she gasped, and was answered with a soft moan.
“I need you to drink something.” Nora reached overhead, groping for Aunt Wilcox’s handkerchief. She dunked it into the remaining solution, then pushed it, sopping, back to Aunt Wilcox’s mouth. Then she lay back on the floor, gasping.
Rest a bit. Drink some more. Then check on Pritchard.
If she felt this thirsty, the other woman’s mouth must be—
Another cramp seized her. With a groan, Nora curled onto her side, squeezing her eyes until lights danced at the corners from the pain. They flickered and swirled until the room blurred into nothingness.
She drifted, sinking in the cold black waters of unconsciousness, limbs slack and useless.
***
“Nora? Nora!”
Daniel’s voice.
Footsteps, pounding up the stairs.
She turned her head just as a bearlike shape barreled through the doorframe. He was muffled up to his eyes and clad in so many capes and coats that he might have been a peddler.
Nora wanted to cry in relief, but instead a strangled moan escaped her lips.
He charged forward, dropping to the floor beside her, shedding capes and tossing aside the preposterous fur hat that made him look like a hussar. Or a Russian. “What’s happened? What are you saying?”
“Miss Pritchard needs something to drink,” she told him. “And I have cholera.”
Daniel gripped the lantern and held it close to her face, the glare piercing her aching head.
“Your color is dreadful.” His eyes strayed to the detritus scattered across the floor: matches, broken quills, the overturned basin and spilled bicarbonate. “What’s all this?” he asked, lifting her to a sitting position.
“I gave Aunt a transfusion of Latta’s solution.” She stopped and closed her eyes, surprised by the violent nausea. “She’s still alive. I can’t get to Miss Pritchard.”
His hands moved, testing the temperature of her forehead and finding the pulse at her neck. He moved closer, staring into her eyes.
“You’re making me nervous,” Nora said.
He scoffed a humorless laugh. “I’m scaring you?” His arms tightened, and he gathered her up. “How long have you been ill?”
She leaned into his straining chest, sorry for the burden of her weight as he grimaced. She had no idea whether it was past midnight. “What day is it?”
He only huffed in answer. “Never mind. We need to get you in clean clothes and feed you some broth.” He bore her along the black hallway.
All she wanted to do was sink back into unconsciousness, where the blackness numbed the agony of the cramps.
As he lowered her into chilly sheets, she rolled to her side, cradling her spasming body.
Daniel whispered some prayer or plea she couldn’t understand. She pushed one hand forward on the sheets to find him, but he was gone.