Gretchen leaned heavily against Thomas as they moved slowly through the narrow lanes of the Fischmarkt quarter, heading east towards her home. One arm was looped weakly around his shoulder, the other pressed against his ribs. The scent of flour and old fish lingered along the canal walls, mixing with the distant aroma of burnt sugar from the confectioner’s booth.

  The Vogt house sat low and square near the canal, its white walls dulled with age and soot. The shutters were closed on the upper floor, a linen rag hanging from one to dry. Thomas knocked twice – sharp, even raps with the side of his fist.

  The door swung open within seconds.

  Herr Vogt stood on the threshold, breath catching visibly in his chest. His face, frequently ruddy with warmth and food, paled beneath its natural flush. His belly jutted forward in a familiar way – sturdy, firm – but it was the way his fingers gripped the doorframe that said more.

  “What happened?” he exclaimed, a mixture of shock and concern in his voice.

  Gretchen smiled and started to answer, but nothing came out. Her lips moved slightly, and her eyelids fluttered. But not much more.

  Thomas cleared his throat. “She collapsed in the cathedral square. She was... dancing. She’s still conscious, but weak.”

  After a pause, he added, "I don't know how long she was dancing."

  The weaver stepped aside, mentioning feebly, "Well, she... ermmm... always loves to dance."

  Inside, the light slanted in strips through the large window along the outer wall and a wooden slat above the hearth. A table stood half-cleared, a pair of wooden cups and a bowl of sliced radish still remained. Thread bobbins had been stacked in a basket near the door, likely for delivery the next morning.

  From a room to the left came footsteps, and then Frau Vogt appeared. She had flour on her apron and streaked across the backs of her hands, white dust clinging to her knuckles. She had probably been kneading dough earlier in preparation for the evening meal, or perhaps to send something to the communal hearth. It was the kind of quiet domestic rhythm that shaped most days.

  Her eyes widened at the sight of her daughter in Thomas' arms.

  “God in Heaven,” she cried.

  “I don’t think anything’s broken,” Thomas said quietly. “But she’s exhausted. It’s best she rests somewhere cool and still.”

  Frau Vogt was already clearing the way, leading them towards the back of the house, past the kitchen alcove and towards the small room where Gretchen slept when she wasn’t at her weaving post. The cot was narrow, the mattress stuffed with straw and clover, covered in a woollen blanket faded to the colour of dust. A small window sat open, its shutters pulled back, letting in the last of the evening light and the faint scent of canal air.

  Thomas laid her down gently. She let go without resistance, her hands sliding from his arms like leaves off a branch. Her face had regained some of its colour, but her lips were still pale, and her brow glistened with sweat. Her feet, when he uncovered them, were blistered at the pads and toes, with minor abrasions darkened by dried blood and grime.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “I’ll need a basin,” he said without turning. “And something boiled, preferably linen or cotton.”

  Frau Vogt was already gone before he finished speaking.

  He washed her feet carefully, dipping the cloth and gently wiping away the grit and blood in slow strokes, before bandaging the bruised areas with another cloth. Gretchen stirred but didn’t flinch. When he looked up, her eyes were barely open. She was vaguely watching him, not entirely present, but not gone either.

  Her fingers twitched again. Thomas took her hand and pressed against her fingers. After a few seconds, he felt it twitch again.

  Herr Vogt stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “Is it the plague?” he asked, voice low and afraid.

  “No,” Thomas said firmly, already checking her pulse again. “No fever. No swelling. And she spoke to me before she collapsed. Her pupils are responsive. She’s weak, but lucid.”

  He went on to describe the uncontrolled impulsive dancing in the town square.

  Herr Vogt rubbed a hand down his face. “What the devil!”

  Behind him, Frau Vogt returned with clean cloths, folded with care. She didn’t interrupt. But as she set them down beside the basin, she whispered, “A woman I know said it was starting again. Like in the old songs.”

  Thomas looked up.

  “St. Vitus,” she added, eyes fixed on Gretchen’s trembling hand. “They used to say the cursed ones danced through the fields. Whole villages. You remember. In the stories.”

  “I do,” he said softly, and resumed wiping her feet. The water had gone pink now, diluted with blood and dust.

  St. Vitus' dance! During medical training, they had heard the tales. Thomas had heard it mentioned a few times, usually briefly, during his years at Basel. Not in the textbooks, but often between lectures, as a cautionary tale. The stories spoke of a kind of mass affliction where people danced and convulsed, like they were possessed by a higher power.

  He remembered the way one professor dismissed it as superstition, and how another, quieter and older than the former, had warned that some illnesses were punishment from the Gods themselves, that they were beyond the reach of Earthly medicine.

  A long silence stretched, broken at times by the rustle of linen and the soft cooing of doves from the rafters above.

  Then Gretchen stirred. Her hand flexed weakly. Her lips parted and her breath was shallow but audible. She made a small, almost childlike sound – a kind of sigh that rose and then faded away.

  Thomas sat quietly beside her. Her eyes fluttered. For the first time since they’d entered the house, her face softened into something close to peace.

  She smiled, faint and weary. But the smile didn’t last long.

  “Don’t speak,” he said softly, placing his fingers on her wrist. “You’re safe now and there’s nothing to worry about.”

  She didn’t respond, only let her eyes close again. But her fingers curled slowly, as if gripping something small and invisible in her palm.

  The sun had lowered further, and the light from the window took on a rust coloured tint. The room grew dimmer. Thomas rose and adjusted the blanket over her legs.

  Herr Vogt cleared his throat. “You’ve done more than enough. Truly. It’s almost dark now.”

  “I’ll manage,” Thomas said.

  He reached for his satchel.

  Frau Vogt was already lighting the stub of a candle and fitting it into a hand-lantern. “Take this. You’ll need it. The canal road is dark and dangerous if the sun goes down.”

  Thomas hesitated for a moment, then nodded and accepted it.

  He cast a lingering glance at Gretchen. He hadn’t said anything to her parents, nor was he going to now, not like this. But part of him yearned to stay, to be with her through the night, to ensure she was alright. But he told himself he was just being paranoid.

  Instead, he reached for the lantern and forced his feet towards the door.

  At the door, he glanced back again. Gretchen was still. Her mother sat beside her now, whispering something softly into the folds of her hair. Herr Vogt had turned to pull the shutters closed.

  “Herr Vogt, I’ll come back and check in the morning. She will be fine,” Thomas called out before slowly closing the door.

  Outside, the street was getting darker. Only a pair of boys lingered on the bridge, skipping pebbles into the current. Thomas stepped into the dusk, lantern in hand. In his mind, he was already wondering just how many more would follow.