Even Matthew came, standing in the hallway outside the room, not entering, but not leaving either. When Eliza caught his eye, she saw past the anger for the first time. Saw the terrified little boy underneath, the child who'd already lost one person he loved and couldn't bear to lose another. She's going to be all right, Eliza told him softly. I promise you, Matthew.
I'm going to make sure she's all right. You can't promise that, Matthew said, his voice cracking. Nobody can promise that. Ma died even though everyone said she'd get better. You can't promise anything.
You're right, Eliza admitted. I can't know for certain what's going to happen. But I can promise that I'll do everything in my power to help her. I won't sleep. I won't rest.
I won't stop fighting for her. That much I can promise. Matthew stared at her for a long moment, then nodded once and disappeared back down the hallway, his footsteps heavy with the weight of remembered grief. The night deepened. Meera's fever raged.
Eliza worked through exhaustion, through the ache in her back from bending over the bed, through the scratchy dryness of her own eyes. She sang every lullabi she could remember from her childhood, her voice rough but persistent. She told stories about brave little girls who fought dragons and won. She prayed in whispered fragments, bargaining with a god she wasn't sure was listening. Somewhere around 3:00 in the morning, Meera's fever spiked higher.
The little girl began thrashing, her small body convulsing with the heat, her skin so hot it hurt to touch. Eliza's calm cracked. "No, no, no," she whispered frantically, stripping away the blankets, pressing cool cloths everywhere she could reach. "Come on, sweetheart. Come back to me.
Come back. She worked with desperate efficiency, changing the water to make it colder, adding more willow bark extract, physically holding Meera still so she wouldn't hurt herself in her delirium. Tears streamed down her face unchecked as she worked, her hands moving on instinct while her mind screamed prayers and please into the darkness. "You can't have her," Eliza said fiercely to the empty room to whatever force decided who lived and who died. I don't care what you took from me.
I don't care that my body couldn't give life. I'm giving it now. I'm choosing this child, this life, this moment, and you can't have her. Time lost all meaning. There was only Meera's burning skin and Eliza's cool cloths, only the ragged breathing and the whispered prayers, only the endless battle between fever and will.
And then, just as the first gray light of dawn began seeping through the window, something shifted. Mera's thrashing slowed. Her breathing, while still labored, became more regular. Eliza pressed her palm to the child's forehead and felt not coolness, not yet, but less heat. The fever was breaking.