She sat on the examining table, and O’Toole wrapped a fresh blanket around her.
“You gave us a real scare, Miss McSorley.”
“Us?”
“Me and the doctor. He saw you first but was busy helping Mr. Orlov.”
Her teeth chattered, but she’d warmed up enough to realize how frigid she was beneath the wet hospital garb.
“I’ll get you some hot tea.” O’Toole left, yanking the curtain shut behind him.
For two weeks, Maeve’s fevered body had fit snugly against hers on the cot they’d shared. The heat, proof that Maeve was still alive, had kept Cora warm as she’d rubbed her little sister’s back and brushed the sweat-streaked hair from her forehead. In the week since Maeve had turned cold, Cora had been so frigid that her teeth would spontaneously begin knocking against each other. Certainly, her temperature hadn’t risen above normal.
O’Toole returned with a steaming pewter mug, which Cora grasped with nearly frost-bitten fingers to take a sip. The tangy, bitter liquid scalded her tongue but did nothing to warm the rest of her. She continued to drink anyway.
When the ferry had delivered Maeve and her to the hospital, O’Toole had been waiting on the dock. Later, Cora had learned that the four blasts of the ship’s horn had signaled the arrival of measles, enabling nurse Holden to send the right orderly to receive them.
O’Toole’s hulking size and protective cloak had terrified seven-year-old Maeve, who’d been too weak to walk. Just as he’d scooped up Maeve, Cora had spotted a golden coin protruding from the sand beneath the pier. She’d tried to give it to her sister, but not even the unusual prize had piqued her interest.
The coin! It was now among the rubble of the burned tent. She would have to retrieve the golden guinea first thing tomorrow morning before someone else did.
As it had turned out, O’Toole had been much more effective at engaging Maeve than any trinket could have been. By the time he’d laid her on a gurney in the lobby of the main building, she was giggling—a sound Cora hadn’t heard in days.
After they’d been admitted and assigned to beds, and Maeve had fallen asleep, O’Toole had brought Cora a cup of this same tea. Its aggressive taste had surprised her; he’d explained that he’d brewed it from plants grown in a small garden near the kitchen. When he’d whispered his secret recipe, she’d felt like he’d entrusted her with the location of the missing Kruger millions.
If she hadn’t caught the measles from the Post newsy, who’d let her read the headlines for free, and if she hadn’t passed it to her sister, the man from the Health Department never would have torn Maeve from Eleanor’s embrace. Instead, Maeve would be sitting at the table beside the stove in their single room, practicing her figures for school tomorrow.
Button. That’s what Cora and her mom had called Maeve when she was a baby, and the nickname had stuck. Because Maeve had been “cute as a button.”
Now, because of her, Button was gone forever.
Certain the throbbing in her chest would never lessen, Cora swallowed the scorching tea; a hint of pokeberry lingered on her tongue.
“Thank you, Mr. O’Toole,” said Dr. Gettler, who was standing at the gap in the curtain in a Mother Hubbard gown, its hood framing his face.
O’Toole nodded and stepped aside.
“Pray to God we don’t lose many dieses Nacht. He finished putting on a pair of rubber gloves and paused, his hands folded. “Fire is far too traumatic an experience for those already in an unstable condition.” He turned to O’Toole. “You can leave now. Vielen Danken.”
The curtain fell shut behind O’Toole, and the doctor motioned for Cora to rotate on the table so he could listen to her lungs. If she did have a pestilence inside her, she wondered, would he be able to hear the individual animalcules? Did they growl and gnash their teeth like rabid dogs? She pictured them tearing at her veins and fought the urge to bolt from the enclave.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Maeve, correct? She’s in God’s hands now.” He tugged his hood, covering more of his face, and raised his stethoscope.
Afraid of what that metal disc would reveal, she lowered the blanket from her shoulders.
Wishing she knew a prayer to recite, Cora inhaled slowly. Despite her mother’s Irish Catholic upbringing, her mam had never taken the two girls to church. From whisperings in the outhouse line following the death of an old maid in their tenement, Cora had learned that God doesn’t allow those who’ve committed suicide into heaven. Maybe this was her punishment for having marginalized her survival, she thought as the doctor repositioned the cold metal beneath her wet nightgown.
If I make it off this rock, she prayed silently to God, I promise I’ll attend Mass. Please, don’t let there be anything wrong with me.
“Your lungs sound clear.”
Cora was overcome with relief. “That means I can go home, right? My mother, she should learn of Maeve’s fate from me.”
“Soon.” The doctor tugged off his gloves. “Your case is . . . what’s the English? Peculiar.” He washed his hands and flipped open a folder. The fact that he’d taken the time to retrieve her file from the administration cottage meant it must contain something important. Cora felt queasy; maybe she did have typhus fever.
“On December 17, 1901, you and Miss Maeve arrived here.” As he described the events that had followed, Cora wavered against a fresh swell of nausea.
He shut the folder. “Miss McSorley, your specimens from this morning were rife with the bacterium that causes typhus.”
Her attention jerked to his chiseled face, writ with concern, and the examining table beneath her seemed to capsize. Dizzy, she clung to its edge. The mutterings in Russian beyond the curtain echoed in her brain. Delirium was a symptom of the fever. So was nausea. A red rash might be spreading
