Free Lady of the Butterflies by Fiona Mountain

froth through the pores of the skin.”
    “You mean let him sweat, sir?”
    “Just so. Just so. But don’t force it, try to cool him rather than let him overheat. Put that fire out, open windows, cover him with light bedclothes and make sure he has plenty of rest. Let nature do its work.”
    “Yes. I will. Oh, I will.” I clasped his hand. I wanted to throw my arms around him and kiss him. “I don’t know how to thank you, Doctor.”
    He looked at me as if my exuberant appreciation pained him. “No thanks are due, child,” he said with a sorrowful tone. “I can’t promise that any of what I tell you will do any good. I guarantee it won’t do any harm, but it may not be enough.”
    “Dr. Sydenham, is my father going to get well again?” I saw there was a practiced reply already waiting on his lips. “Please tell me the truth, sir. I want to know. Is he going to die?”
    He looked at me almost in wonder. “That is a very courageous question to ask, child. In all my years as a physician I have hardly ever been asked it so directly. But I am afraid that in this instance, I honestly do not know the answer.”
    “I don’t want my father to die, sir.”
    “I don’t want him to die either, Miss Goodricke. I would save him for you if it was in my power to do so. But I am not God. Unlike some in my profession, I don’t pretend to hold dominion over life and death.”
    “There must be something more you can do.”
    He stood back as if to make a proper study of me. “What a singular child you are. Tell me, are you always so determined?”
    I smiled faintly. “I am told that I am.”
    He was thoughtful for a moment, gave my arm a quick tap. “As a matter of fact, there is something.” He was a wonderfully kind and caring man, I decided, even if he had deserted the plague victims. I was sure he must have had a perfectly valid reason for it. He glanced toward the bed, then stepped even further away from it, motioned me to come with him and lowered his voice to the faintest whisper. I leaned in slightly toward him, tilted my head, amused by such clandestine behavior, which seemed entirely unnecessary but rather fun. It was almost as if we were playing a game. “There’s a new remedy for ague,” he murmured, “heralded as a miracle cure. But I did not suggest it before because I guarantee your father will not want to touch it.”
    “Why not, sir?” I whispered, turning to look at the still figure in the bed. “What is it?”
    “Powdered tree bark, brought from Peru to Spain and just this year made readily available in this country.” He dropped his voice still lower. “It is commonly known as Jesuits’ Powder, on account of the fact it was discovered by Jesuit missionaries.” He saw that I understood instantly. This was no longer a game. Anything connected to the most despised order was highly suspect. “He will know that Oliver Cromwell himself allegedly refused the powder,” Dr. Sydenham explained quietly. “And died as a result, I believe. He will also know that it was given to an important London alderman during the last major outbreak of ague in the city seven years ago. The alderman died, and Protestants all across England, no doubt your father amongst them, scented a Jesuit plot. They believed the bark to be an insidious poison which the Jesuits had brought to Europe for the express purpose of exterminating all those who have thrown off their allegiance to Rome.”
    I blinked, fixed my eyes on him. “But you do not believe that, sir?”
    “I do not. However, I’ve not had the opportunity to conduct proper trials of the powder, though I hope to soon, but I’ve heard from numerous other sources that it is very effective.” He looked across at my father, his expression a great deal less impartial now. “If we could only get him to take it, I believe it would be worth a try.”
    “What is?” my father mumbled, his eyes still closed. “What’s all this whispering?” When neither of us