A single candle was the only light in the room. It was past 2 a.m., and it was Challenger's turn to sit with Marguerite. He had finally managed to get Roxton to leave her side with the threat that he would be no help to her if he was falling down with exhaustion. Roxton had walked away defeated, begging Challenger to awaken him if there were any change. Unfortunately, there had been none. Her fever was still soaring, and she was extremely restless. Challenger had managed, with some effort, to get several spoonfuls of the willow-bark tea down her throat. That, combined with the cool, wet cloths he had placed on her forehead and behind her neck, would hopefully help break the fever. What was a larger concern, however, was her breathing. Challenger had begun to notice Marguerite's breathing becoming more labored. The sooner Veronica and Malone returned with the butterfly weed, the better he would feel.
In the meantime he began grinding the mustard seed for a plaster. He had a vague memory of reading about the positive effects of chamomile and thyme placed in boiling water. Supposedly, when inhaled it had both anti-inflammatory and anti-bacterial effects. Arthur, where are you when I need you? This is your forte, not mine. I'm guessing at best!
A moan from Marguerite brought him quickly to attention; all thoughts of his missing friend cast quickly aside. He looked down to see her staring up at him. The moment of relief that he felt at the possibility of a turn for the better disappeared quickly with the single word she said.
"Papa?"
Challenger's first impulse was to answer "no." The scientist in him protested the thought of pretending to be something he most certainly was not. The man who had come to admire and care for this remarkable woman, however, knew better.
"Yes, my dear child. Your papa is here. How do you feel?"
"I don't feel very good. My chest hurts really bad, and it's hard to breathe." Marguerite's voice was different, higher, her delirium obviously taking her back to her childhood.
Damn! That's what I was afraid of. She's got all the signs and symptoms of a bad case of pneumonia.
Challenger decided to take advantage of the fact she was awake to try and feed her more of the willow-bark tea. "Marguerite, my angel, I have to give you some medicine. It's not going to taste very good, but it's going to help you feel better. Do you think you can take some for me?"
"Yes, Papa," Marguerite said as she stared up at him with her serious gray eyes. "I'll do it just for you, but please stay with me. It makes me so sad when you go away. I promise I'll be a good girl. I won't bother you while you're working or leave my dolls on the floor. Please don't leave me. I don't want to be all alone again."
Marguerite's words were like a punch in the stomach. Challenger had long suspected that her less-than-idyllic childhood had done much to create the woman she now was, but hearing the words of a child begging for her father's love and attention was almost more then he could bear.
"Don't worry, Marguerite. Your Papa will be right here. I promise I won't leave you. How could I ever leave my little angel?" With that he leaned down and softly kissed her cheek, briefly tasting the salt of her silent tears. He never knew that Roxton stood silently in the doorway behind him, shedding his own tears for a childhood forever lost.
In the meantime he began grinding the mustard seed for a plaster. He had a vague memory of reading about the positive effects of chamomile and thyme placed in boiling water. Supposedly, when inhaled it had both anti-inflammatory and anti-bacterial effects. Arthur, where are you when I need you? This is your forte, not mine. I'm guessing at best!
A moan from Marguerite brought him quickly to attention; all thoughts of his missing friend cast quickly aside. He looked down to see her staring up at him. The moment of relief that he felt at the possibility of a turn for the better disappeared quickly with the single word she said.
"Papa?"
Challenger's first impulse was to answer "no." The scientist in him protested the thought of pretending to be something he most certainly was not. The man who had come to admire and care for this remarkable woman, however, knew better.
"Yes, my dear child. Your papa is here. How do you feel?"
"I don't feel very good. My chest hurts really bad, and it's hard to breathe." Marguerite's voice was different, higher, her delirium obviously taking her back to her childhood.
Damn! That's what I was afraid of. She's got all the signs and symptoms of a bad case of pneumonia.
Challenger decided to take advantage of the fact she was awake to try and feed her more of the willow-bark tea. "Marguerite, my angel, I have to give you some medicine. It's not going to taste very good, but it's going to help you feel better. Do you think you can take some for me?"
"Yes, Papa," Marguerite said as she stared up at him with her serious gray eyes. "I'll do it just for you, but please stay with me. It makes me so sad when you go away. I promise I'll be a good girl. I won't bother you while you're working or leave my dolls on the floor. Please don't leave me. I don't want to be all alone again."
Marguerite's words were like a punch in the stomach. Challenger had long suspected that her less-than-idyllic childhood had done much to create the woman she now was, but hearing the words of a child begging for her father's love and attention was almost more then he could bear.
"Don't worry, Marguerite. Your Papa will be right here. I promise I won't leave you. How could I ever leave my little angel?" With that he leaned down and softly kissed her cheek, briefly tasting the salt of her silent tears. He never knew that Roxton stood silently in the doorway behind him, shedding his own tears for a childhood forever lost.