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“It is most likely a fever of the season,” the doctor said at last, straightening. “Children of this age take them a dozen times. It will look a great deal worse than it is.” He paused.

“Are you certain?”

“Most likely. I will not tell you more than that tonight.”

“But…” Phillipa looked at her husband and then to the doctor, “there must be something we can do in the meanwhile. Are we expecting the fever to go down on its own?”

“That is usually what happens, yes,” he nodded. “But I should tell you to make use of cool clothes that are to be changed the moment they warmed. Sips of water, small and often. The window open, please.”

Phillipa noted down all his instructions and he left a bitter-smelling bottle, and a promise to return in the morning.

It was the longest night either of them could remember.

They took it in turns, though neither of them ever said so. Phillipa wrung cloths. When her arms tired, Gregory handed the baby to her and took the basin, and when Theodore began to fret, Gregory who took him up again and walked him back and forth.

“Come now,” she heard him say, somewhere near two in the morning. It was a rough sound, hardly a voice at all. “Come, little man. You may be as cross with me as you like. I have given you every reason. Only stay, that is all I ask. Stay, and be as cross as you please.”

Phillipa turned away, pretending to be busy with the basin, because her eyes had filled.

Later, she began, without meaning to, to hum.

It was nothing, an old tune from her own nursery, a slow thing she had not thought of in fifteen years. She only wished to fill the silence. But it made Theodore’s breath even out, and it made something in Gregory’s shoulders ease.

“I have not prayed since I was twelve,” he said, so quietly she almost missed it. “I thought it was something one grew out of. I have been trying all night, and I find I do not remember the words.”

“I think it does not matter. I think you may simply ask.”

He was silent a while. Then he bowed his head over the small dark one against his chest, and his lips moved without sound, and she looked away to give him the privacy of it.

Near three, the crying stopped.

Phillipa laid her palm flat on his chest and felt the heart going, fast, but steady. Fast, but steady.

“He is only tired,” she said. “It is only the fever wearing him down. That is all this is.”

“Say it again,” said Gregory.

“It is only the fever wearing him down.”

He nodded but did not look as though he believed it, and neither did she, and they went on.

Dr. Hale came back a little before six. He examined the child again, taking even longer than before, and when he finally straightened, something in his face had eased.

“The fever has broken,” he said. “He will be warm and listless for a day or two, and he will not want his food. Keep him quiet, and out of drafts. But the worst is past.” He looked between the two of them. “You did everything right. I do not say that to every frightened parent who sends for me at midnight. I say it because it is true.”

When he had gone, the house went quiet again, the ringing quiet that comes after a long fear has finally been allowed to let go. Theodore slept in his cradle, still hot, but less so, his mouth open, one damp fist curled beside his cheek.

They sat on the nursery floor with their backs against the wall beneath the window, too tired to go further.

“I cannot lose him too,” said Gregory.

Phillipa reached across the small space between them and took his hand. He let her as his fingers closed on hers, hard enough to hurt.

“Since he was left with me,” he said, “I have told myself a story. That she was well. That she was somewhere, careless, irresponsible, the way she was about letters. I told it to myself every morning. I knew what the truth had to be. I think I knew from the first night what happened, but I didn’t want to believe it.” His voice broke.

Phillipa held her breath.

He was finally opening up to her about what had happened.