That left her alone with Meera, Levi, and Nathaniel. The twins had understood enough to know something was very wrong. Their usual energy subdued into worried stillness. Levi, Eliza said, I need you to pump fresh water and bring it up here. As much as you can carry.
Nathaniel, go to the root cellar and bring me any herbs you can find. Dried mint, chamomile, anything that looks like it might be for tea. The boys scattered to their tasks, leaving Eliza alone with the feverish child. Meera's breathing had turned ragged, each breath a labored effort. Her skin was dry and burning.
Her lips cracked despite Eliza's attempts to get her to drink. Please," Eliza whispered, pressing another cool cloth to Meir's forehead. "Please don't take this child. She's already lost her mother. Don't make her brothers lose her, too. " She didn't know who she was praying to.
She'd never been particularly religious, her faith tested and found wanting during the long, barren years of her marriage. But in this moment, with this little girl burning up in her arms, she would beg anyone, anything, for help. Levi returned with water, his eyes huge and frightened. Nathaniel brought an armful of dried herbs, some of which Eliza recognized, and some she didn't. She made a tea from chamomile and mint, sweetening it with honey, and tried to coax Meera into drinking.
"Come on, sweetheart," she murmured, supporting Meera's head while holding the cup to her cracked lips. "Just a few sips. That's all I need. Just a few sips. " Meera managed two swallows before turning her head away, whimpering. Time became elastic, stretching and compressing in ways that defied logic.
Minutes felt like hours. The sun crawled across the sky with agonizing slowness. Eliza kept working. Cool cloths, fresh water, attempts to get liquids into Meera's body. Levi and Nathaniel hovered nearby, too frightened to leave, but too helpless to do anything useful.
When Bo finally burst through the door, his face was a mask of controlled terror. Behind him came James, and behind James came Matthew with Doc Morrison, a grizzled man in his 60s who'd seen every kind of illness the territory had to offer. Out, Doc Morrison said, shoeing everyone but Eliza from the room. All of you out. Let me examine the child.
The next 20 minutes were excruciating. Doc Morrison poked and prodded, listened to Meera's labored breathing, checked her pupils and her pulse, and a dozen other things Eliza didn't understand. His face remained professionally neutral, giving nothing away. Finally, he straightened and turned to Eliza. How long has she been like this?
Since this morning, she woke up with a sore throat and a mild fever. By noon, it had gotten much worse. Have you been keeping her cool, giving her fluids? As much as I could get her to take. She's barely conscious most of the time.