Thomas knelt and gently lowered Gretchen to the ground, positioning her against a nearby low stone ledge. Her limbs hung limply, offering no resistance. Her fingers still twitched faintly, brushing the hem of his cloak. But her eyes were closed now, and her breathing was shallow and irregular. He pulled the cloak more snugly around her, one hand at her temple, as if the touch might anchor her to the world. She seemed fairly calm now.

  Thomas stood up. The other dancers remained caught in motion, each orbiting their own invisible centre. He moved first to the boy. He was perhaps fifteen, with a leather apron and blistered hands. He was still hopping, although now with less energy, his arms limp at his sides. His face was streaked with tears.

  When Thomas placed a hand on his shoulder, the boy started, gasping, “I want to stop. Please.” Thomas looked him over quickly – reddened eyes, cracked lips, a gash on one knuckle. His legs were shaking, and his toes were split and red from dancing barefoot. Thomas pressed two fingers against the side of the boy’s neck. His pulse was pounding, rapid but not feverish. He was conscious, terrified, and clutching to his senses.

  “What’s your name?” Thomas asked. “Hans,” the boy whispered. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to. I thought I could stop.”

  “Lie down, Hans. Here, against the wall.” Thomas guided him gently with his hands, applying gentle pressure against the movement his body seemed insistent on, speaking in the voice he used for frightened patients – calm, steady, low. “Breathe with me. In. Out.” The boy nodded shakily and obeyed, eventually curling up beside Gretchen, who hadn’t stirred.

  As Thomas rose again, he heard quick and purposeful footsteps approaching through the crowd.

  “Doctor Albrecht,” came a familiar voice. It was Benedikt Steiger from the apothecary from two streets over, a sharp-eyed man with a meticulous manner and a patchy beard. He carried a satchel over one shoulder and a folded cloth in his hand. “I saw you here. Do you need anything?”

  Thomas exhaled in relief. Benedikt was the kind of man one could lean on in a situation like this. “Water, please. As much as you can find. For all of them.”

  Benedikt nodded without question. “There’s a cask behind the soapmaker’s. I’ll fetch several jugs full.”

  “And if you have anything with valerian or poppy seed, just to calm them down.”

  “I do. I’ll be back in minutes.” He turned and disappeared.

  Thomas moved next to the old man – a broad-shouldered fellow with arms like timber stumps, kneeling in the dirt and pounding his flour-covered thighs in rhythm, over and over, as if punishing himself. His lips were flecked with foam, his teeth clenched. He mumbled as Thomas crouched beside him. “Fiddler,” he rasped.

  “What fiddler?” Thomas asked, turning around and scanning the crowd.

  The man didn’t answer. He jabbed a thick finger towards the edge of the square, beyond the faces, towards the road that led north.

  “Can’t you hear him? He’s just beyond…” His voice faltered. “Just past the grain stalls. Always there. Playing.”

  Thomas didn’t see or hear any fiddler. He pressed his hand to the man’s chest. The man was drenched in sweat, his shirt sticking to his skin in salty rivulets. His heart pounded beneath Thomas’ palm, but he didn’t appear febrile. There was no swelling in the neck or armpits. No petechiae. No sign of plague.

  Thomas didn’t try to argue. “Lie down,” he said instead. “Let me help.”

  The man hesitated, then tried to lie down. But his body just wouldn't give. Thomas tried easing him downwards. The old man's rhythm was still strong and unyielding. After a couple of minutes, Thomas had to give up. Better to wait for Benedikt, he thought.

  Finally, he moved to the woman. He recognised her – Angie Blick, a local brewer's wife. Her dress had torn at the side, revealing a dark bruise across her hip. Her feet were raw. Yet she continued to dance, now not spinning but pacing in a tight, compulsive circle, her hands clenched at her sides. Her lips moved constantly in a whisper-prayer. He gently grasped her, holding her arms and speaking softly. “Frau Blick. Please, you must sit.” Her gaze drifted over him at first, uncomprehending. Then her shoulders sagged. She stopped. Her hands shook.

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  “Is it a curse?” she asked. “Did someone summon it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But you must rest now.”

  But she didn't stop, she kept dancing. And similar to the old man, Thomas eventually had to let it be and wait for Benedikt to return.

  Thomas looked over the four of them now, two sprawled out like felled trees in the half-shadow of the square while the other two kept dancing, the energy waning but still compulsive and unstoppable. Each displayed a different form of the same affliction – twitching hands, jerking feet, fear behind the eyes, or an eerie absence of anything at all.

  And then Gretchen stirred. Her fingers brushed the stone beside her, then twitched into a small fist. Her lips parted, and she let out a soft sound. It felt just on the edge of something, maybe the start of a hum. Thomas leaned in closer. She fell quiet again, her brow furrowing. Above them, the church bells began to ring on the hour mark. The sound carried over the rooftops and into the square, high and slow. But beneath it, faint and barely audible, Thomas thought he heard something else. Was it something like... strings? He looked around. No, there was no musician in sight.

  ***

  Benedikt returned not long after the last bell rang out. His steps were cautious, and his arms were full. A pair of wide-necked earthen jugs sloshed with water. A smaller pouch dangled from his wrist. It was tied with a string and smelled faintly of crushed valerian root and chamomile. He thought quickly and acted well. Thomas felt grateful for his actions. He was a pharmacist whom he could always trust.

  “They’re still breathing?” Benedikt asked quietly as he knelt beside Thomas.

  “Yes. But two of them won’t stop moving.” Thomas took one of the jugs and uncorked it. “Start with the boy, he’s the most lucid. Just a sip, then a little of the tincture.”

  Benedikt nodded and moved to Hans, uncapping the stopper from the vial. Thomas turned to Gretchen. She lay still now, her face slack, hair matted to her cheeks. He slipped an arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her gently. She stirred slightly and her eyelids fluttered. He tipped the water to her lips.

  “Easy,” he murmured. “Just a little.”

  She drank reflexively, not fully awake, her throat bobbing with two small swallows. When he brought out the tincture, she grimaced faintly at the scent but did not resist. A trace of colour gradually returned to her cheeks. Her breathing slowed slightly.

  “Good,” Thomas whispered, brushing her hair back. “That’s good.”

  Benedikt had finished with the boy and was already moving to the old man. The man resisted at first but Benedikt spoke to him in that soft pharmacist’s tone, not unlike Thomas’ own. Eventually, the old man stilled long enough to take a mouthful of water. Not enough. But it was a start.

  “Try to coat his lips with the tincture,” Thomas advised. “Just rub it in if he won’t drink.”

  He turned to the crowd now. They still lingered at a distance, a circle of faces behind the market stalls and under the hanging awnings. Watching. Whispering. When Thomas had first arrived, the atmosphere had seemed a bit more frightened. That feeling seemed to have eased, but the confusion remained.

  “I need help,” he called out in the general direction of the onlooking crowd. “These people must be taken home.”

  He looked up at the sky. The daylight was gradually becoming more muted. “Especially before dark,” he added.

  There was hesitation, a murmur, and then some movement. A few shoulders straightened.

  Thomas gestured towards the brewer’s wife. Benedikt was now offering her the tincture. “That’s Angie Blick. If anyone knows where her husband is, go inform him please.”

  “I do,” said a wiry man, stepping forward from near the fountain. “He’s usually at the storehouse at this time. I’ll run.”

  He and a man who was with him were off before Thomas could thank him. It seemed like they both were familiar with Herr Blick.

  “I need someone who knows the boy,” Thomas said next, pointing to Hans. “His name is Hans. Fifteen. Mason’s apron.”

  A moment passed. Then a woman with straw-coloured hair spoke. “He works with my brother,” she said. “That’s Jakob Henner’s apprentice.”

  “Good! Please, send word to Jakob. He’ll know what to do.”

  She turned and slipped away into the narrow street at once.

  That left only the old man.

  Thomas looked at him, still jerking his knees in uneven cadence, sweat pouring. “Does anyone know this man?”

  There was a long pause.

  Then an older farmer with dust-coloured sleeves scratched his jaw. “I think he’s one of the millers from down the Brauhaus road. Don’t know his name. Not local.”

  Thomas nodded grimly. “Then please inform the Rathaus. He needs help.”

  A couple of older men headed off in the direction of the town hall.

  He crouched again, checking Gretchen’s pulse. Slower now. Not normal, but steady. Her fingers no longer tapped. They lay loosely at her sides, as if the string that had been pulling her had slackened for the first time.

  He turned towards Benedikt. “Stay here. Ensure Angie and the man are kept still as best you can. If they fall, protect their heads. Keep giving water. A little tincture every twenty minutes if they keep moving.”

  “You’ll take the girl?”

  Thomas nodded. “Her home isn’t far.”

  He slid one arm beneath Gretchen’s knees, the other behind her back. She felt lighter than he remembered. Or perhaps it was that she no longer held herself up. Her head tilted gently against his collarbone as he stood, cloak still wrapped tight around her.

  Benedikt met his eyes. “Be careful. If it spreads…”

  “I know.”

  Thomas turned. The crowd parted for him now without hesitation. The mutters had changed character. It felt more spread across the entire square, rather than concentrated at a single point. The prayers had stopped.

  A small part of Thomas’ brain – the bit of doctor’s instinct – made him briefly consider staying back to ensure the others were also looked after. It was just a fleeting thought. No, Gretchen was the one who was now at the forefront of his mind. This wasn’t merely professional curiosity anymore. It was personal!