Her heart gave an unwelcome, agonizing pang. His handwriting.
But behind her, the boy was whimpering. His mother was at his side, and she gathered him up in her arms, rocking him back and forth. Jane must act, not ache.
Jane became aware, then, of eyes on her. Many eyes. She looked up, and from the second room in the small farmhouse peered three small faces—the other children. Orren’s father was likely close at hand, too.
Mr. Lowell returned, pushing past her and giving the bowl back to Orren’s mother, just in time for her to catch the next stream of putrid vomit.
Jane forced her attention back to the notes. They seemed to be just what had littered the top of Augustine’s desk, grabbed in desperation. Maerbeck, Maerbeck, she chanted to herself, wondering how it might be spelled, searching for anything that might match it in the tangle of letters on the crumpled pages. She found nothing, and changed tactics, looking for vomit. Nothing there, either, but then her gaze caught on one of the longer words on the fourth page in the satchel: hyperemesis. It seemed to throb upon the paper, and she frowned, reading the paragraph containing it. She knew that word.
There. Maerbeck. She’d found it.
If Vingh had not used that word …
There was no time to consider it. Sagging in relief, she scanned through the page from top to bottom, thankful for her time untangling Augustine’s personal account ledger, thankful even for her discovery of Elodie, if it meant, now, she stood half a chance of helping.
Jane found the list of symptoms. Fever, vomiting, a red rash on the skin. But Jane had to be sure, because the list of treatments frightened her even to consider. To inflict them on the boy, she had to be certain that this matched what Augustine had seen before. Jane approached mother and son, paper clutched in her hands, and crouched down.
“Orren,” she said softly. “Can you open your mouth for me?”
The boy stared past her, eyes glazed, barely blinking.
“He can’t hear you,” his mother said, then choked back a sob. She reached out and stroked her son’s red cheeks, then gently took his chin in hand, and with her thumb pressed to his lips, pulled his jaw down.
Jane leaned forward, but the light from outside was dim with the storm, and the hearth’s glow flickered. It was hard to see. She shifted, changing the angle, wishing there was gaslight. But this was a farm, and the farms had not yet been run with gas.
She tilted her head slightly and saw at last what she was looking for. The back of the boy’s throat was streaked white and red. “Do you see?” she asked, paper crinkling in her first as she clutched it. “The pattern on the back of his throat, that means scarlet fever.”
Orren’s mother peered in, then eased her son’s mouth closed once more. “That’s what I was telling you!” she whispered fervently. Jane winced, but listened through the pain to the real question. Does that mean you can fix it?
Jane spread the paper out on her lap again. “For scarlet fever, Dr. Lawrence”— her voice caught—“recommends bleeding, first and foremost.”
Her elbow ached where Augustine had sliced her open, and she wanted to take it back. She couldn’t do that to the boy, already struggling to survive. But that was the difference: she had been healthy, and he was ill. Mr. Cunningham had been bled before, as had Mrs. Cunningham. Even she must have been in actual times of sickness, though she could not remember it happening.
And Orren’s mother was nodding, accepting it as simple truth. Mr. Lowell pulled a case out of the satchel. He held it out to her.
She stared up at him. Couldn’t he do the deed…？
But she couldn’t look weak, not in front of Orren’s mother. Fear had to be answered with confidence, with strength. Jane took the case and opened it, revealing the same tool that Augustine had used on her the night before. Her hand shook as she lifted it from the molded interior, seeing her own reflection in the polished metal. It was simple enough to operate. A few presses of her thumb wound the spring, the blades drawing up inside the housing. She gently pulled one of Orren’s arms from within the blankets, feeling again how hot it was, how much he shivered, how little he responded.
She placed the metal box against the inside of his arm, mirroring where Augustine had placed it on hers, and pressed the button.
Orren didn’t cry out as the blades bit into him, or as blood began to run down his arm. Orren’s mother held him cradled against her chest, tucked into her lap, with the basin out to the side to catch the flow. They sat, very quiet, until the bleeding slowed. Orren’s family gathered around them, watching, waiting, hoping. Jane repeated the procedure on the other arm.