July 30th, 1518 (Friday)

  Thomas stepped inside, his heart suddenly pounding much harder. He made an intentional effort to keep calm, waiting for Frau Vogt to provide whatever details she was going to.

  The air inside hit him like a wall – thick, sour with sweat. Candles had been lit early; the scent of tallow combined with the worn linen of old furniture.

  “She collapsed before dawn,” the mother added, already leading him towards the back of the house. “But you should see for yourself.”

  In the small room behind the loom hall, Gretchen lay as if unspooled. Her bedclothes were crumpled, her braid undone, strands of yellow hair matted against her forehead. Her cheeks were flushed red, her lips cracked and darkened at the corners. One hand rested against the cot’s frame; the other, palm upward, twitched every few seconds with an almost metronomic rhythm.

  Her head tilted slightly to the side, and every so often her eyes moved behind the closed lids. Her body didn’t seem entirely still. She was conscious and awake.

  Thomas knelt beside her quietly.

  Frau Vogt lingered near the doorframe, voice hushed. “It began sometime before midnight, maybe around 10. I heard the floorboards creak. I thought she was up for water. But when I stepped into the hall... she was at the door, clawing at the bolt. Saying strange things. Shouting.”

  Thomas turned his face slightly towards her, but kept his eyes on Gretchen.

  "Strange things?"

  “She wanted to get out,” the mother continued, “but she didn’t know why. Her voice was... not hers. Or maybe hers, but not in her control. She was laughing one moment, then weeping. She said someone was coming, someone she had to meet, but she didn’t say who. She said many such things throughout the night.”

  Faint murmuring rose from the cot. Thomas leaned closer.

  Gretchen’s lips barely moved, but the sound was distinct. A fractured pattern of syllables, broken phrases. Then a pause. And then she whispered in a rhythm, soft but clear.

  “One-two-three. One-two. One.”

  A breath.

  “One-two-three…”

  Her tone was hushed and dry, but unmistakably rhythmic and deliberate at that.

  “We tried to restrain her,” Frau Vogt said, clutching her apron tightly. “My husband had to hold her arms. She kicked and thrashed. I thought she’d break the bed frame. Eventually we just had to let her move and dance. And her father followed her around to make sure she didn’t injure herself.”

  “And you say... it went on until dawn?” Thomas asked quietly.

  “Almost. Until just before the sun came up,” she nodded. “Then she stopped. Just like that. We wiped her down, changed the sheets. She hasn’t really spoken since. Just sometimes the... that counting.”

  He nodded once, eyes narrowed. The twitching in her hand continued in that repetitive, strange rhythm.

  He exhaled slowly and reached for his satchel. Before examining her, he needed to steady his mind first. Whatever this was, it was becoming more serious. And urgent.

  ***

  Thomas gently lifted Gretchen's hand, cradling it softly between his own. Her skin felt warm, but not feverish. Her pulse throbbed rapidly under her wrist but remained steady, indicating an overworked heart rather than fever or fright.

  Her breathing was shallow. There were brief, conspicuous pauses at the end of some exhales, as if her body occasionally forgot the next step. She remained still, apart from the faint fluttering of her fingers and a left leg muscle that twitched occasionally.

  He lifted the sheet carefully, already anticipating what he would see. Her legs were tense, with the calf muscles drawn taut under the skin. Small purple bruises had started to appear near the knees, where she might have struck herself or been held too tightly during the chaos of the night.

  He ran his fingers along those bruises. They were definitely contact injuries.

  Frau Vogt had gone to fetch fresh water while he worked. Her footsteps came and went quietly outside the room. Thomas reached for the small pouch of valerian root in his satchel. He pinched a little between his fingers, crushed it finer in his palm, then gently coaxed open Gretchen’s mouth and pressed the mixture under her tongue.

  "Mmm..." Gretchen made a slight noise and shifted as his fingers were inside her mouth.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The bitterness of it filled the air, earthy and sharp. He paused briefly, observing her swallow before she crinkled her nose.

  Then he turned to the basin. The water was lukewarm, but it would do. He soaked a folded cloth, wrung it tight, and placed it across her forehead, smoothing it gently from brow to temple.

  Her lips were cracked. This could be a sign of either fever or dehydration. Thomas judged it to be dehydration. He made a mental note – barley water, or broth. Nothing rich. Nothing hard to swallow.

  The hand in his lap suddenly clenched, then relaxed. He took her hands in turn and gently massaged them, coaxing her fingers open when they curled too tightly. They moved instinctively – open, close, open – but without awareness, just a rhythm seemingly repeating itself, detached from the body it originates from.

  He heard the front door creak, and then Herr Vogt’s boots, heavier and more hurried than usual. The man appeared in the doorway moments later. His face was drawn, the collar of his shirt half-loosened.

  "I was at the loom," he said, eyes darting to his daughter. "I came back as fast as I could."

  Thomas nodded but said nothing for a moment. He continued working her right hand in slow circles.

  "She’s been like this since morning?" he asked quietly.

  Herr Vogt stepped into the room, voice lower now. "Near enough. She screamed herself hoarse last night. When she stopped, I thought that might be a mercy. But this… this is worse, somehow."

  Thomas noted that he was more talkative today than in any of their previous interactions. It was clearly nervousness, evident in his voice, his urgent posture, and his entire demeanour.

  He looked towards the bed. "You think it’s still in her? The fit, I mean. Lurking?"

  Thomas pressed the compress gently to her temples. "I think her body remembers it. Even if her mind does not."

  Herr Vogt looked down. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and said nothing more.

  "I know it sounds... abstract," said Thomas hesitantly. "But that's about the best way I can explain it."

  When Frau Vogt returned, Thomas rose to speak with them both.

  "Please, keep the room cool," he said. "Open the shutters once the sun has passed. Don’t cover her with too many blankets, even if she shivers."

  Frau Vogt nodded, listening carefully.

  "Give her barley water. Or chicken broth, but only in small sips. She might refuse at first. Insist anyway."

  "And one more thing," Thomas added slowly. "No music. None. Not even church bells, if it can be helped. Keep the windows shut when they ring."

  Both parents exchanged a look but didn’t question it. Not anymore.

  Thomas hesitated for a long moment before further adding something that, even to him, sounded a bit ridiculous. But he was going to err on the side of caution regardless.

  “And… please change your source of flour. Gretchen has told me you guys get your flour from Hessekorn Mill. Please try another source from tomorrow.”

  The parents exchanged another glance. This time, they exhibited even more confused expressions. Eventually, Frau Vogt nodded.

  Herr Vogt confirmed. “Sure, we’ll do that!”

  Thomas finished packing his satchel slowly. He cast a glance towards Gretchen, who lay still beneath the compress, her hands slowly clenching and releasing again.

  Then he slowly sat back down beside her. He did not say what pressed most heavily on his mind.

  This was the first time he felt the real possibility that he might not see her again.

  He noticed Frau Vogt tap her husband on the shoulder. They slowly left the room.

  Thomas remained seated beside her for a long while after they left the room. The house had gone still again, save for the occasional creak of wood settling or a soft intermittent murmur from Gretchen.

  He reached for her hand, cupping it in both of his own. Her fingers twitched occasionally but eventually settled. They curled loosely around his thumb. He gently rubbed slow circles into her palm with the pads of his thumbs, not to comfort or to soothe – just to stay close.

  He leaned forward and touched her forehead with the back of his hand. Slightly warm. A sheen of perspiration clung to her brow. He wiped it gently with the edge of his sleeve, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

  He gazed at her face. Her mouth had softened since he arrived, no longer drawn tight from the night’s torment. But the lines of exhaustion were still evident – beneath her eyes, across her brow, at the corners of her lips. This was not the expression of a girl recovering. It was the look of someone struggling to stay tethered to the world.

  A tightness crept up his chest, and before he could quieten it, a tear slipped from his eye and landed near the pillow. Then another. He blinked hard, but another followed. He bent his head, one hand still holding hers while he dried his cheeks with the other.

  He managed to collect himself after a few moments. He was being paranoid, he told himself. She was still alive, and her vitals were still fine.

  He wiped his eyes roughly, straightened his shoulders, and looked at her again. Then, quietly, he leaned down and pressed his lips to her cheek. Her skin was warm, smelled faintly of rosemary and sweat.

  “Stay with us,” he murmured. "We'll get through this."

  And then, as gently as before, he kissed her on the forehead.

  And then he rose again and gathered his things. This time, he walked out of the room without looking back.

  Frau Vogt waited at the door. Her hand was steady, but her eyes were searching his face. “You’ll need this,” she said, holding out the already lit lantern.

  Thomas accepted it in silence. The light cast long shadows as he stepped outside. It had become pitch dark. He quietly closed the door behind him.

  The streets of the Tanner’s Quarter were quiet as Thomas made his way back, the lantern swinging gently in his hand, casting fleeting light across the cobblestone street. The air had grown cooler since sunset, but he wasn't paying attention. Gretchen's face kept flashing through his mind, the half-lidded eyes, the sweat on her brow. He could still feel the warmth of her skin against his lips.

  He passed by shuttered windows and low stoops, now silent in the hush of night. The aroma of baking from earlier still coated the air, now mingling with the scent of damp stone and distant smoke. His mind drifted to calmer days – the days before the heat, before the strange dances, before her name carried fear with it, only joy and warmth.

  He remembered her laughter from the spring markets, how she’d tug at his sleeve to show him some absurd trinket or another, the way she once danced in the alley behind her house – not under compulsion, but with her arms high and skirt flying, simply because the sun had come out after days of rain.

  That version of her, bright-eyed and flushed from life rather than fever, felt rather distant now. And yet, tonight, as he walked back to his home, the memory of it lit up a part of him that hadn't gone entirely dim, and he yearned for those days again.

  He held the lantern a little higher and kept walking.