She pulled her hood over her face and drew her hands beneath the tent of fabric. In the darkness she pictured an angry pack of wolves swarming her organs. A communal strengthening over the past five years, as Dr. Gettler had feared? Or a spontaneous uprising? Caused by . . . a vegetative force. No, she thought, that was a fairy tale told to me by a deranged doctor.
Still, she couldn’t risk causing an outbreak by returning to Manhattan.
In her current condition, she belonged under quarantine. She knew that.
Her heart—the one organ that hadn’t yet turned against her—thudded.
Returning to the hospital meant facing Dr. Gettler. A fierce cold gripped her body, providing no relief from the fever. Shivering and wet, she huddled in the corner of the stern.
She had to go back. For a chance at preserving the antibodies within her, Dr. Gettler would do all he could to aid her body’s fight against the infections.
But at least one of them should gain her freedom, and Mary had already promised to contact Cora’s mother.
The water looked furious and unforgiving. In those waves, she would never reach North Brother. And who knew what sea creatures lurked below? When she was younger, she’d read in the newspaper about a great white shark caught in the harbor.
Out of habit, she blew into her reddened, bare palm, quickly realizing that the calming technique wouldn’t work. She hadn’t just woken from a nightmare; she’d entered one.
Cora tried to swallow a sob, but her swollen throat thwarted her effort.
She had to jump. Now. Cora shifted to a crouch.
Helmut stopped rowing. Joining with the other two, he stared at her.
“I’ll swim,” she said through what felt like shards of glass lodged in her tonsils. “Life jacket?”
No one responded.
“Can I have . . .” Of course. Not even Mary would give up her preserver: they still needed them, whereas Cora was practically dead already.
She clasped her hands, and the skin between the pustules turned white. Jumping out now would be suicidal, but remaining in the boat would be equivalent to murder.
By Mary’s and the men’s horrified expressions, Cora knew that they thought so, too.
She coughed to clear the glass from her flaming throat. “Mary, remember your promise.”
Mary’s grimace relaxed into a sad smile. “You’re a strong lass. You’ll make it, and I’ll find a way to git ya free, I promise.”
Despite everything Cora had told her about Dr. Gettler, Mary still didn’t understand. “Don’t forget my mam.” If only she’d brought the golden guinea, Mary could have passed it along to Cora’s mother.
“Ta, absolutely.”
Cora pulled off her face wrap and dropped it into the river, then her cloak. She knew she should remove her shift and bloomers as well but couldn’t bring herself to do so in front of the men.
“Jump!” Mary barked. “Git on with it!”
Cora covered her ears, but the shrill sound continued.
Seagulls circled overhead. Cora looked at Mary, who appeared to be sobbing.
“Jump now!” the seagulls shrieked.
Delirium. Another symptom of smallpox. And measles. And typhus and typhoid.
The pests were quickly overwhelming her. If she didn’t reach shore before they completely stole her wits, she’d drown for sure. Please, God. She pressed her crucifix pendant to her lips.
Gripping the gunwale, she pulled herself upward to stand. The sky and river merged, and she swayed as the boat jounced in the waves. If she didn’t throw herself over now, she’d topple onto Mary, so she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and . . .
Pain shot through her lower back, followed by a suffocating coldness.
Moments Later
idal water flooded her mouth as a rushing sound filled her head. The water seemed to be getting heavier, pressing against her skull. She tore at the churning river, but the darkness deepened. Her ringing ears felt ready to explode.
The surface should have appeared by now; she must be pointed down. Air. She needed air. Up had to be in the direction of her feet. She folded at the waist to reach for them, but a riptide spun her.
The fire of the fever: that had been nothing compared to this burning in her lungs.
Suddenly light appeared. She refused to believe it was anything but the sky.
With both arms, Cora pulled toward it and kicked hard.
The current’s force lessened, and she reached for the brightness. The wind hit her face, and she inhaled and gagged. Too fast. She coughed out water and sucked in air. Her body tingled, and all she could see was blinding white.
Slowly her lungs ceased their wailing and her vision returned. An intense ache replaced the numbness; the incision on her abdomen stung. In her struggle, the stitches must have ripped free.
Sculling with her hands, she searched the horizon for a boat that could rescue her.
No. She had to let go of that hope. If a ship came to her aid, she would have to drown herself before they could haul her aboard. Her arms slowed with the realization, and her legs felt like sacks of coal, pulling her down.
“Keep your head above water. Don’t panic: it’ll tire you out.”
Mary. They’d come back for her!
Searching for the boat, Cora thrashed in a circle.
“Find the lighthouse, and swim toward it. Cruadal, my friend, cruadal.”
The voice, urging courage, had to be in her head.
Still, she should heed it. She cleared her eyes and cast about for a familiar landmark.
The Williamsburg Bridge appeared on the horizon. She pivoted and found North Brother’s lighthouse, and to its right, South Brother Island. They were shrinking; the current was dragging her away. She had to swim hard, or she’d be carried into the harbor. Her bloomers billowed around her legs, so she yanked them free.
A swell knocked into her, and she hacked to clear her breathing passages.
The whitecaps made the front crawl impossible, so she dog-paddled.
