The Doctor and Rose returned to the sickroom without further conversation. In truth, both were able to provide considerable assistance. Although Rose had no medical training, her instincts were superb, and she was a comforting presence to two small girls whose mothers had needed to remain at home with infant siblings. She bathed their arms and legs with cool cloths to ease the discomfort caused by the lesions. She ran gentle hands over their brows and spoke soothing words to them. She hummed and sang softly when they whimpered in pain, and she helped them drink water, tea, and juice when they were thirsty or too cold or excessively warm.
For his part, the Doctor divided his time between the young patients and the laboratory. Once Rose became ill, he would have little time to devote to anything but her care, so he wanted to ensure that all the equipment was ready in case a survivor was found.
Preparation was a challenge due to his determination to keep the details of the antitoxin creation somewhat hazy. Dr. Wembur, while aware that immunity and a possible cure could lie in the blood of those who'd fought off the disease, did not yet understand the specifics of the underlying theory. Thus, the Doctor needed to preserve the current state of scientific knowledge while ensuring that he could create the antitoxin successfully.
This required some machinations within the lab.
He also had to be certain that Rose ate the meal he'd specifically ordered for her. She was very preoccupied with her charges and told him twice that she'd take a break soon. But two hours after the food had been delivered the tray sat untouched.
When the Doctor returned to the sickroom the fifth, or possibly the sixth, time—he'd really lost track—he took the glass of juice from the tray then stood at Rose's side. She was changing Raben's brother's diaper. The older boy was very ill; his breathing was starting to become labored, and his fever was high. Ilaine, pale and fretful, hunched beside him.
"Drink this," the Doctor instructed Rose in a tone that squelched any argument from her.
She nodded and complied, taking a few small sips before setting the glass aside.
"All of it," he said as he moved to Raben's bed. He pulled the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and scanned the boy as surreptitiously as he could. No one noticed his actions; the adults were all preoccupied with the children, who were too ill to find any wonder in the small device. The Time Lord frowned as he studied the tiny blinking lights.
Dr. Wembur had been absent for hours, devoting all his attention to the Prince, who remained in the palace. One of royal staff who'd volunteered her services seemed to have some basic medical training, so the Doctor took her aside.
"Raben's having trouble breathing, and it's only going to get worse over the next twenty-four hours. All of them will likely have the same difficulties," he told her.
She nodded with concern.
"Can you prepare a poultice?" he asked.
"Yes, of course."
They discussed the local flora until he found the appropriate combination of herbs to help ease the respiratory distress. The woman hurried away to find the necessary supplies and begin the poultices.
As he stood in the middle of the room, gaze sweeping over the small, pained faces, the Doctor seriously considered the potential consequences of altering the timeline. With a single blood sample, he could return to the TARDIS and prepare an effective antitoxin within a few hours. These children could all be healthy again by morning. If he were careful, no one would know what he had done. The technology here wasn't sophisticated enough for anyone to analyze the children's blood sufficiently to determine which drugs he'd used.
But he'd seen the effects that seemingly miniscule changes wrought upon the timeline.
If any of these children were meant to die, and his advanced medicines saved them, then he could do irreparable harm to Time. Yet if none would succumb—if Rose or an elderly survivor could provide the antitoxin—then all he was doing was easing their suffering.
He walked back to Rose and rested his hand against her cheek. She had not developed a fever yet. So he still had some time.
"I'll be back in a little while," he told her.
She nodded unquestioningly, attention focused upon the baby. His ran his hand over the toddler's hair, smoothing it back from his hot forehead. Then he quietly took an empty syringe from one of the cabinets and knelt beside one of the unattended children, a boy perhaps four years old. He was sleeping. The Doctor quietly and quickly obtained a blood sample, working so gently that the child did not stir.
He pocketed the syringe then strode from the room and down the hallway to the entrance door. He pushed it open.
Three Sentries immediately spun around, hands upon their guns.
The Doctor lifted his hands in response. "No need for those. I'm helping Dr. Wembur."
One of the guards nodded. "Yes sir, we know. But no one is permitted to leave the building."
"Oh, but that doesn't apply to me. I'm just going to pop out and gather a few supplies that I need—"
"Apologies, sir, but this building is in quarantine. You need to go back inside. Orders are directly from the King."
Resigned, the Time Lord stepped back into the building. Well, there went that bright idea. Oh, he could probably sneak out through a window or temporarily stun the guards with setting 445 on the sonic screwdriver, but he had a distinct feeling—an odd yet recognizable tingle at the back of his mind—that he wasn't meant to meddle in this any more than he already was.
When he returned to the sickroom, he stood in the doorway for a few minutes observing the scene. All of the children were uncomfortable, some distressingly so, and even those few who slept were pale and wore pained expressions upon their diminutive faces. Rose worked diligently to ease their discomfort, clearly intent on her purpose. And yet he still wished she'd gone directly to the suite he'd had prepared for her. Because somewhere in her mind she was surely processing the fact that soon she'd be in the same position as these children: afflicted and aching. He wondered if she'd regret her choice.
He noticed that her food remained untouched. He waited until she'd put the baby back in his bed then slid an arm around her and guided her toward the door.
"Come Rose, it's time for a break."
"No, I'm fine," she began to protest.
"You haven't eaten any of this," he pointed out as he lifted the plate.
"I will later."
"Nope, now's better." He kept his tone light.
Still she hesitated to leave. He took her hand and urged her out the door.
"If you don't eat, the children's mothers won't, either. And everyone needs to keep up their strength," he said. "Have some of this, and when you return you can tell Ilaine and the others about it, and perhaps that'll encourage them to have something, too."
Rose sighed in acquiescence. "Fine. But I don't wanna be gone too long."
"I know."
He led her back to the room where she'd waited earlier. She sank down on the sofa, and he suddenly realized that she was tired. He did a quick mental calculation to determine how long they'd been attending to the sick and was rather surprised to discover that seven hours and sixteen minutes had passed since he'd injected Rose with the infected blood.
He sat down beside her and reached for half of the dense meat pie on the plate. "Looks good—even after sitting for a while."
Rose's gaze moved languorously to the pie. "S'pose so."
"C'mon, Rose, eat up."
She took the piece from him and had a small bite. He thought she spent a long time chewing, even for a human. He watched her, thinking that her skin looked a little pale. She seemed to move more slowly than usual, too, her hand lowering the pie back to the plate with a slight lethargy. Was that a mild tremor in her forearm?
He waited until she'd swallowed the bite of pie then poured some water from a pitcher on the side table and offered it to her.
She drank thirstily. "Mm, that's good," she said, reaching for the pitcher.
He quickly refilled her glass and watched as she downed it.
"You're thirsty," he commented.
"Yeah, s'pose so."
"Are you feeling fatigued?"
She shook her head. "No, Doctor, I'm all right. I should get back to the baby—"
She pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly as she stood.
He wrapped his hands around her shoulders and eased her back down. "Dizzy?" he asked.
She was about to shake her head again, but the concerned look her gave her seemed to encourage a degree of truthfulness. "A little," she admitted.
"Just now, or were you feeling it before?"
"Really just now."
He pressed his palm over her forehead. She was not yet feverish, but he was certain it was only a matter of time. He tilted her head up so that he could feel along her neck beneath her jawline.
"That tickles!" she said, but there was little humor in her voice.
"Glands are slightly enlarged," he reported.
"So that's it? I've got it now?" Her tone was a strange mix of expectation and fear.
"Looks like it." His tone was straight fear. But he forced himself to brighten as he added, "That means it's time for you to retire to the very posh suite I've had set up for you."
"I don't feel that bad yet. I can still help out—"
"Rose, I want you to listen to me," he said seriously. "The best way you can help now is to let the disease run its course. But that doesn't mean you have to poke at it with a big stick. Proper rest will encourage recovery, and the sooner you recover, the sooner I can make the antitoxin."
"I understand," she acknowledged.
"Think you can eat any more?" he asked, glancing at the pie.
"No, 'm really not hungry."
"Feeling nauseous?"
She shook her head. "No, jus' not in the mood to eat."
"Well, you do need to continue to nourish your body—that's going to help with your recovery considerably. But perhaps some soup would be a little more agreeable."
"Yeah, perhaps."
He took her arm and helped her to stand. She winced at the movements, and he knew without asking that the achiness was beginning. He walked her to the suite. Her lack of reaction to the lavish linens and beautiful, lustrous wood furnishings attested to her growing discomfort.
A lovely embroidered nightdress lay upon the bed. The fabric was very soft, and he held it out to her. "I'll go see about getting that soup for you, then I'll come back and tuck you in."
She nodded, taking the nightgown from him. She glanced down at it. "Pretty."
He smiled. Perhaps she wasn't feeling quite so ill after all.
When the Doctor returned, he found Rose sitting on the bed. She'd put on the nightgown and pulled a blanket over her shoulders, but she hadn't gotten beneath the sheets yet.
"Soup's coming in about twenty minutes," he said cheerily.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and her face blanched. "Thanks." Her voice was very small.
"Rose?" He walked to her quickly. "Are you feeling much worse?"
She exhaled slowly and shrugged away from the blanket. The nightgown was loose, with only thin straps looping over her shoulders. Her arms were fully exposed. Just above her right wrist he saw the beginnings of a deep red weal. She lifted her arm slightly.
"Guess that's it, then," she said, glancing down for only an instant. "Looks like it's workin'." She grinned thinly.
He nodded, taking her wrist gently. He studied the blemish for a moment then turned over her arm, inspecting the back. The skin remained smooth and flawless. He examined her left arm to find it temporarily unscathed. He knew the disease affected adults less severely and hoped that she wouldn't develop many more of the painful lesions.
"How are your legs?" he asked.
"I… I was a little afraid to look," she replied a bit abashedly.
He smiled sympathetically. "You don't have to. But I think you should let me see."
She nodded just once, and he lifted her legs to the bed, sliding the ankle-length gown up just above her knees. There was a lesion forming on her left calf, and another beside the knee.
"Well, that's not so bad," he told her.
"No?"
"Nope."
"Will I… will they be everywhere?" she asked, touching her stomach hesitantly.
"They seem to affect the extremities the most," he replied. "Do you feel something here?" He rested his hand very softly over hers.
She shook her head. "No."
He decided not to pursue the issue just now. He pulled back the covers and helped her crawl between the satiny sheets. By the time she was settled in bed, the soup had arrived. He sat beside her and held the bowl, encouraging her to eat more than the few spoonfuls of broth she slowly swallowed. He had to resort to a hint of emotional blackmail, reminding her that her speedy recovery was dependent upon her body's ability to fight off the disease, and without nutrition she would delay the process considerably.
She managed to finish most of the bowl. By the time she had, however, a fine sheen of perspiration covered her forehead and cheeks. The Doctor rested his palm over her brow.
She was running a low-grade fever.
"Try to get some sleep, Rose," he said, picking up the tray that had held the soup. "I'll check back in a little while."
She nodded gratefully and sank back against the pillows.
To be continued…