Timepiece by Richard Paul Evans Page B

close. “Good night.”
    â€œGood night, David.” MaryAnne cuddled up next to him and eventually fell back asleep. David stared sleeplessly at the ceiling.

    The following morning, MaryAnne walked into the nursery and pulled back the drapery, filling the room with virgin sunlight.
    â€œGood morning, sweet Andrea,” she sang lightly. She sat down on the bed. “Time to wake up.” Andrea opened her eyes slowly. Her eyelids were heavy and swollen. Her lips were dry and cracked.
    â€œAndrea?”
    â€œMama, my neck hurts.”
    MaryAnne lay her cheek across Andrea’s forehead and instantly pulled back. She was hot with fever. She ran to thedoorway and called for Catherine, who appeared almost instantly.
    â€œAndrea is feverish, fetch me some wet rags and ice from the box. Send Mark with the carriage for Dr. Bouk.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” she said, running off. MaryAnne knelt by the bed and stroked Andrea’s forehead. A few moments later, Catherine, quite out of breath, returned with the articles.
    MaryAnne took the cloth, wrapped it around the ice and held it up against Andrea’s forehead. For the first time, she noticed the rash across her cheek. The night’s dream echoed back to her in haunting remembrance. She quickly pushed it away.
    Andrea had fallen back to sleep by the time Mark returned with the carriage. Catherine quickly led the doctor up to the nursery. Dr. Bouk had been David’s personal physician ever since David first cameto the city and was no stranger to the Parkin household. As he entered the room, MaryAnne moved to the opposite side of the bed. He was of a serious demeanor and acknowledged MaryAnne with a simple nod. “Mrs. Parkin.”
    â€œDoctor, she has a fever and a rash.”
    He set his leather bag on the ground and bent over the child. He placed his hands on the sides of Andrea’s neck and lifted his forefingers beneath her jaw. “Does that hurt, sweetheart?” Andrea nodded lethargically. He frowned, then gently opened the child’s mouth. Her tongue was white, with fine red marks.
    â€œIt is scarlatina,” he said slowly. “The scarlet fever.”
    The pronouncement sent chills through MaryAnne. There had already been eighteen deaths in the city that year from the disease. She wrung her hands. Catherine moved next to her.
    â€œWhat do I do?”
    Doctor Bouk stood up and removed his bifocals. He was a tall, gangly man, emaciatingly thin, with an ironic pouch of a stomach. “She must stay in bed, of course. Within a few days, the rash may become dusky. I will administer an ointment that will help stop the spread of the disease. It should make her more comfortable.” He reached into his bag, then lifted out a small vial. “This is biniodide of mercury. I will give her a half grain. It may arrest the fever and prevent the desquamation—the skin flaking off.” He raised his hand to his mouth and coughed. “A daily hot salt or mustard bath may help. Glycerin and water will aid the throat. Catherine, you can get the glycerin from an apothecary. It should be administered directly to the inside of the throat.”
    â€œHow long does the illness last?”
    The doctor frowned. “Maybe forty days—with good fortune.”
    He did not need to explain. MaryAnneknew that death often occurred within the first two weeks.
    â€œBe of good cheer, Mrs. Parkin. There have not been as many deaths from scarlet fever as there were before the century.” He stood up and touched her shoulder, then stopped at the door. “I must notify the city health department. They will quarantine your home.”
    MaryAnne nodded. “Of course,” she said. When he was gone, she sat down on the bed, fighting back the tears that gathered. Catherine put her arm around her.
    â€œWhere is David?”
    â€œHe is coming, MaryAnne. Mark went to fetch him.”
    MaryAnne looked down on her