The bone-dry air became unbearable, yet she reached for that fiery gateway.
Her lungs gave out; she collapsed.
But instead of descending to hell, her soul seemed to be rising.
The heat diminished and she became aware of a pair of muscular arms crushing her torso, carrying her away from the fire. Opening her eyes, she recognized Richard O’Toole’s red hair, thick with ash.
“Put me down,” she demanded, struggling to free herself.
The orderly maintained his hold until they’d reached a safe distance from the inferno and set her on her feet. A nurse wrapped a coarse blanket around Cora’s shoulders.
She wiped at the sting in her eyes. “How dare you grab me like that?”
O’Toole flinched, and she shrank away from him. Her mother, Eleanor, would be ashamed of her for being so forthright with a man, even though she routinely ignored the decorum she preached. Long after the murmurs of the head physician bringing “the black bottle” to quicken Maeve’s departure, O’Toole had tended to her.
“I’m sorry, I—”
He raised his hand to silence her, softening the gesture with a smile. “I know how hard this is for you, but think of your mum. If she lost you too—”
“Vielen Danken, Mr. O’Toole,” Dr. Gettler said with a cough, likely to clear smoke from his lungs. “We work so hard to return them to their Familien, and now we’ve lost four already tonight.” He rubbed his spectacles with the corner of his ash-stained dress shirt.
“Mr. O’Toole, please see this young lady to Pavilion Five. I’ll meet you there shortly.” He touched the stethoscope hanging from his neck. It looked out of place without the standard gown, gloves, and rubber overshoes worn by the staff. When the fire began, he must have been on his way to the ferry.
She’d never been treated by this doctor but had overheard the nurses talking about him. They fancied him for more than his resemblance to a Norse god: he knew the names of all the indigent ill he treated, and he always asked who they planned to see first once recovered. Before Maeve had passed, Cora’s answer would have been her mother. Now she dreaded even the thought of that visit.
Tonight, the doctor’s skill would be better devoted to patients who wanted to survive. “Dr. Gettler, sir, I’m well. Others need your attention more.”
He raised his glasses to rub his reddened blue eyes and peered at her. “Miss . . . deine Name?”
“Coraline McSorley.”
“Doch.” He dropped his spectacles onto the bridge of his elegantly straight nose. “Miss McSorley, your samples were brought to my attention earlier today. The results are sehr interessant. I was planning to review your health history tomorrow. And take a trip to the microscopes in Carnegie Laboratory. For that I’ll need additional specimens.”
Why would he go to all that effort? she wondered.
There must be something wrong with me. In my blood.
That morning she’d gritted her teeth during the jab from a needle, as thick as a crochet hook, to fight off the wooziness while her blood had surged into four vials. Now she felt equally lightheaded. White spots crowded out the flurries that spun through the gray sky, and she felt herself fading.
A joyful shrieking rang in her ears.
Maeve.
I must be in heaven, Cora thought. Whiteness enveloped her, and she felt as light as a wisp of wind.
The scolding voice of a nurse interrupted the laughter.
Cora turned her head to the side.
A child, covered in smallpox, stomped in the slush one last time and ducked inside the nearest wood-framed pavilion.
Dr. Gettler’s face, his mouth and nose now covered by a mask, appeared close to hers, and a brightness momentarily blinded her. She blinked as he lowered a lantern and held up his hand. “How many fingers?”
“Three.”
“Sehr gut.”
She met his gaze. The tendrils of darker blue within his irises reminded her of the spokes on the snowflake in her natural history textbook. She’d never been this close to such a handsome man. Her cheeks burning, she looked away.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Well. I’ve always had a strong constitution.”
He nodded to O’Toole, who lifted her from the muck and fixed her blanket around her.
The doctor sized him up. “I’ve heard the saying, ‘Nothing can kill an O’Toole.’ I hope it’s true; I need your assistance. Even though she’s symptom-free, I’ve reason to believe that Miss McSorley’s highly contagious.”
Cora gasped. “That can’t be. I’m not sick.”
His expression softened to a sympathetic smile. “I wish that were the case.” He turned to O’Toole. “We must take every precaution. You and I shall be the only staff permitted to treat Miss McSorley. Please escort her, and keep her segregated from the others.”
O’Toole held out his massive hands. “I think it would be best if I carry you, if that’s all right, miss. We don’t want your feet gittin’ frostbit.”
Cora backed away. Aside from the chill that had gripped her core, she felt perfectly fine. “He’s wrong. Leave me alone, please.”
She wanted to run, away from the disease and death that permeated this callous rock. But if the doctor were right, and a pest was living in her now, that wouldn’t do her or society any good. Raking her nails along her arms, she again thought of the river and the end it could bring.
The ferry’s horn sounded, signaling its departure without Dr. Gettler. As the families of those under quarantine surely did every night, his would likely spend this one worrying.
“Come now, Miss McSorley,” O’Toole said. “Let’s get you out of the elements.”
She knew he would stop her before she reached the crust of ice at the water’s edge.
“If you won’t walk, I’ll have ta carry ya.”
Shaking from fear, anger, and the cold, she followed him to the fifth structure in the line.
O’Toole eased open the door, and a rush of stale air and murmurings of discontent greeted them. An electric lightbulb hanging from the ceiling blinked out
