He carefully poured the remaining half of the potion from the bottle into a bowl. He walked to the bedside, pried open his daughter's lips—cracked and dry from the high fever—and fed her the potion, little by little.
After giving her the medicine, Anton was hit by a wave of irresistible exhaustion. He knew he was at his limit, but the instinct to survive forced him to cling to his last shred of consciousness. He staggered to the door, slid the bolt home, and double-checked that the windows were securely shut.
Once all this was done, he all but collapsed onto the low stool by the bed. His head slumped to one side, and he fell into a deep sleep, sinking into a long-forgotten dream.
In his dream, there was no plague, no panic, and none of the suffocating, acrid stench of something burning.
He was back in his workshop. Warm sunlight streamed through the window, and the air was filled with the familiar, clean scent of oak.
