The night is alive, my sweet babe.
Your dreams are filled with raindrops from heaven;
Sleep, my sweet babe, and cry no more.
It was a lullaby, sung from mother to child. Ailsa had heard Toby sing it before, though it hadn’t sounded nearly as beautiful as when Tate sang it. Tate glanced up at Ailsa when he had finished the verse and, seeing her smile, gave forth the second stanza.
Your heart is light, my sweet babe;
Your slumber is divine, my sweet babe.
The angels hold you, my arms enfold you;
Be at rest, my love, for you are ever mine.
A peaceful hush had settled over the room. Like an attempt to quiet a fussy baby, there was a fragile spell in the air. Ailsa’s voice shattered it.
“Sing the fairy song!” she cried.
Startled, the knights shushed her in unison. Justifiably contrite, it did not deter her enthusiasm. She whispered loudly this time. “Sing the fairy song!”
Tate gave her a reproving look. The singing excited Ailsa and thankfully seemed to soothe Toby. He launched into the old folk ballad, normally a lively dance. He wasn’t surprised when Ailsa dropped her sister’s hand and began to leap around the floor.
Dilly, dilly, lady fairy, how shall you fly? Long to the day as slumber grows nigh;
On gossamer wings, you touch the stars.
On the wings of angels, you steal our hearts.
Come touch my heart, O fairy dove,
And take me from the world above.
Ailsa stopped her jig and clapped happily. The knights quieted her in unison again.“Hush!”
Ailsa’s mouth formed an “O” and she put her hand to her lips in a silence gesture. She looked at Toby, fearful that she had disturbed her, but Toby was sleeping as peacefully as she could be given the circumstances. Tate began to sing another song, a calming lullaby, as Stephen went to take his brew off of the fire. He poured a good amount in a pewter cup and came back over to the tub.
“It should cool so she does not scald herself trying to drink it,” he said quietly. “But your singing has accomplished wonders; she is calm now.”
“Calm, aye, but she is still as hot as the sun,” Tate said. “I can feel it through my clothes.”
The last bucket of water went in to the tub. It was nearly to the brim with tepid water that would help stabilize Toby’s temperature. But it also made her shift transparent, something Tate could not see and Stephen tried not to notice. When Toby started to shiver and her nipples hardened, Tate’s attention was drawn to the tantalizing peaks shrouded in wet linen. So was Ailsa’s; noticing her sister’s state, she flew into a frenzy and ripped the coverlet off the bed. She tried to tuck it in around her sister, causing water to splash all over the floor.
The knights would have scolded her had they not realized what she was doing. Stephen went so far as to help her. The drink was cooled sufficiently at that point and the former Hospitaller knight held Toby’s head up with one hand, administering the cup with the other.
The first spill of the warm brew into her mouth was a jolt. Toby sputtered and coughed, but Stephen managed to get an adequate amount of the foul-smelling liquid into her stomach. When he finally set the cup aside, Tate reached under the wet linens and lifted Toby’s wounded wrist above the water.
“Now,” his voice was a growl. “Tend this. I believe this is the source of her fever.”
Stephen inspected the wounds closely. “What manner of demon did this?”
Tate was reluctant to say with Ailsa present. He simply shook his head and Stephen saw that he either did not know or would not answer. He drew some powder from his satchel and mixed it with water, making a paste. Applying the paste to the wounds, he wrapped it with a strip of dry cloth.
“This should draw the poison out,” he said. “Keep it out of the water as best you can.”
Tate nodded silently. Toby was quivering against him in reaction to her prolonged submersion in the water, but she didn’t seem as hot as she had been. He put a hand on her forehead again, feeling the warmth but confirming that his suspicions were correct; her fever was lessened. Feeling somewhat reassured that she would survive, he settled back in the tub, his big hand holding her head against his shoulder and the other arm wrapped around her waist, and began to sing again. It was soft and gentle, like a father singing to a sick child. Somewhere in the singing, he tightened his grip, certain he could out-wrestle Death if it came to claim her. The last time he had held a dying woman in his arms, Death had won. Now it was the principle of the matter. Death would not best him again.
Eventually, they moved Toby out of the tub and onto the bed. She was calm and the fever seemed to be abating. There was nothing left to do but wait.
