January 25, 1816

Gilberto

Filipe stalked into the parlor, his limbs stiff with forced calm. "He will not be still! He complains about everything! Nothing is right!" He fingerspelled all of that rather than gesturing whole words. Gilberto could not fathom what that signified. "And he wants to speak to you!"

Gilberto shifted uneasily. "Perhaps - "

"Get. In. There."

There was no help for it. Gilberto slunk into his brother's room.

Diego looked no better than the last time Gilberto had visited. He was propped up on pillows and grey. His eyes were closed, though, so perhaps he was asleep—

"You have been avoiding me."

"Of course not," Gilberto protested, hurrying to sit on the edge of the bed. "You've been resting. I've been letting you. If I hang around you'll fuss about the blasted newspaper again. I am a terrible influence." The words came out thoughtlessly, and Gilberto wished he could bite his tongue off.

Diego slipped his cold hand around Gilberto's. "It isn't your fault."

Gilberto lifted his chin. "I am not such a coward that I need you to deny it. Riding out….was too much for you."

"Yes." Diego cleared his throat and suppressed a cough. "It was. But it was not your fault I went."

Oh, Diego. So good and forgiving. Gilberto felt sick. "I provoked him."

"I know."

"I mocked him. I caused - "

"He came here to hunt you." Diego whispered. "Zorro is the prize he has bet his career on winning."

Gilberto shook his head.

"You and Zorro in the same place. He has seen it. I have protected you—" He paused to cough. "I would have killed him, but….upping the stakes so….would only mean the next would be worse… and I won't be here."

"You'll be here," Gilberto said automatically. And then, "On our birthday. You promised." But this year Diego had only promised he would try.

Diego squeezed his hand hard. "Listen to me. I would do it again. If I have killed myself protecting you, I am not sorry."

This was unendurable. Diego had always loved him more than he deserved, forgiven far more than was just, been so generous—this was unendurable. Gilberto ground his teeth together desperately.

"'Berto." Too softly. "I need to sit up – a bit more."

"Here. Slowly. Let's turn you sideways so your legs can rest over the side." The motions of shifting and resettling Diego were dreadfully familiar. The new position seemed to ease him, though. "There, all right? Rest a moment. No more serious conversations for a while."

There was a knock at the door and no pause before footsteps crossed the outer room. It was Father Benitez, carrying his satchel of herbs and simples, and Gilberto felt a flash of relief. "We didn't expect you till evening."

The small old man considered them for a moment, and, as always under his scrutiny, Gilberto winced inwardly. "Felipe sent a message. I came as quickly as I could."

"Thank you."

"I need to examine him. Please wait in the library."

It was almost a relief to get out of Diego's room, but pacing the library was also terrible.

The wait was surprisingly short. Father Benitez appeared in the entry way, pointed at a chair in a silent command to sit, and reported, "He is asleep. Your father is with him."

Gilberto—sitting down—nodded.

"It is very bad."

There was nothing to say to that. Gilberto stared at the floor.

"The dandelion is no longer enough. He is not passing water, and what he has retained has settled in his viscera. It is too much for his heart."

Gilberto steeled himself and lifted his chin, but his courage nearly failed him. It took a long moment to ask, "How long?"

"You misunderstand. This is not a conversation about his death. This is a conversation about desperate options."

"What—what do you mean?"

He took a finely made wooden box from his satchel and laid it in Gilberto's hands. "My very last idea. A gift from a friend of mine from Central America."

Gilberto unlatched and lifted the delicate lid. Inside was….were they small, black raisins? The did not smell like raisins. "This will strengthen his heart?"

"This will make him piss." His voice was hard. His eyes were not happy.

Gilberto's own heart sank. "It is poisonous."

"Some. Possibly more than he can withstand. He is very weak."

Gilberto snapped the box shut. His hands were trembling. "Where was this a month ago? He was stronger! He -"

"He was improving then. There was no need to take such a terrible risk."

Gilberto gently set the precious box aside and retreated to the fireplace. He leaned against the mantle, just to the side of the latch that opened the secret door. "You are offering kill or cure. What you are asking me to choose -"

"There is no choice. And there is no time. We must speak to your father and then we must give the first dose now."

*Z*

The affect was small at first, but wonderful. By midnight, Diego had filled a chamber pot. By noon the next day he had passed an astonishing amount of water, enough that the family could see the difference in his joints and face. But he also had cramps in all of his limbs, and by evening the pain was…quite bad.

Diego bore it as he bore everything. Calm and determined, he ate the shriveled and bitter berries, took his other medicines, and walked the hallways hourly when he was awake. Gilberto, when it was his turn to sit with the patient, reminisced about their student days.

The next day Diego could not stand. The pain was bad enough that he could not sleep. Then his stomach rebelled against the medicine, and he could keep nothing down. That had been a new kind of awful: Diego muttering apologies, Felipe and Nuela scrambling to keep up with the mess, the look on Father Benitez's face—

Gilberto drew him aside. "What is it?"

"We must stop the treatment. If he cannot keep down his other medicine …. " His eyes turned worriedly toward the bed.

"Oh. Is it….It is too soon." To have put him through so much suffering for nothing….

"I had planned another day of the fruit. But. He has passed a great deal of water. It may be enough." He glanced over his shoulder at Diego. "I suppose…if we had to….we could begin again in a few days."

Oh, Diego. "Perhaps," Gilberto said hopelessly, "he would do better after a rest? Wouldn't he? A little stronger?"

Father Benitez did not look at all encouraged. Gilberto surveyed the rest of the room. Felipe was seated on the floor, slumped with exhaustion. Father was holding Diego's hand and he looked near to tears. Nuela, gathering up the soiled rags, was in tears….

Gilberto gently sent them all away, climbed up beside Diego on the bed, and pushed their shoulders together.

Diego answered with a soft, meaningless sound.

"Try to sleep," Gilberto whispered, slipping a finger around Diego's wrist. The pulse there was stronger. Wasn't it? And….as haggard and ill and wretched as Diego looked, wasn't he just a little pink?

With no other option, Gilberto began to pray. Diego shifted slightly and rested his head against his shoulder. After a while he seemed to fall asleep.

Diego woke a little after sunset. He ate and took his regular medicine. He said the pain was better even though he still needed help standing. Gilberto spent that night in the chair by Diego's bed.

Most of the pain and weakness were gone by Monday, and Diego was – madly, in everyone else's opinion—demanding to be allowed to work on his newspaper again.

Gilberto retreated to the cave and curried Toronado for a very long time.