I cannot thank enough all the interest, little prompts - and readers, still! - who have kept faith in this story through the very, very long wait for this chapter. I did not initially mean it to be so long, but interruptions, distractions, and several changes in narrative direction have all played their part.

Pleased be assured that things will start progressing more quickly from now - on all fronts!

With thanks and best wishes, Joanne x

Chapter Fifteen

Hours of Storm and Darkness

Gilbert's first thought, perhaps stupidly, was to seek Anne, to shield her from the terrible, wrenching, wretched sight in front of them; he should have known better that she would not turn from this – she was already across the room, flinging herself at the bed, gasping Katherine's name.

He paused briefly in his own awful, agonised indecision; whenever he saw blood retched up from shredded lungs he was a boy once more, helpless and horrified, watching his father try to stem the sight of it with hankerchiefs and later towels that would never know their original color again.

He blinked. No. It wasn't Dad. This wasn't the same. Katherine Brooke did not have consumption.

But God help him if he knew what she did have.

His beleaguered brain kicked into some sort of gear. He was vaguely aware that he might be the only male on the entire premises, save for some gardener or groundsman; he felt the sudden vulnerability of all these women and girls alone, faced with a crisis in the dead of night, and for the first time understood a little of the Matron's mistrust and wariness of him. Running in parallel however was a new feeling of responsibility; he must do something here, even if it wasn't exactly his place to do so. And even if he hardly knew exactly what.

"Miss Baker," he hurried over to the young woman, only about his own age, who was still sobbing loudly and distractingly. His voice searched for and found the quiet authority he had had to employ during raucous Student Council meetings, and that he had first had to draw upon as teacher in Avonlea, facing up against innumerable, upstart Boulters and Pyes. "You must calm yourself now. Miss Brooke will need clean sheets and cool washcloths. Do you think you could manage to find some?"

The tearstained girl looked at him in confusion, but then something in her altered.

"Ah… ah… yes?"

"Good," he nodded, offering a reassuring smile, and he saw her limp out the door, checking his slight amazement at her unquestioning acceptance to do as he had bid.

He turned back to the two women struggling with a now flailing Katherine Brooke on the bed.

"Gilbert!" Anne met his eyes, pleading and panicked.

"Here now, Miss Brooke," he soothed firmly. "Matron, I think we need to turn Miss Brooke on her side to ensure there is nothing obstructing her airway. Here…" he directed Anne and Matron Burgess to turn the tall, slight woman in the way Uncle Dave had long ago taught him before they had left for Alberta, lest he be on his own with his father choking on his own blood. "Make sure her head is to the side as well, and that her nose and mouth are clear."

Katherine Brooke did indeed dislodge a final, tiny morsel of food, and seemed to slump in immediate relief, as Gilbert felt himself do.

As Anne, after a moment, sat Katherine in the chair Gilbert surveyed the sheets the Matron began to remove for washing. Spots of blood, he observed, but no other matter or membranes, as far as he could detect. He fought to marshal his thoughts as he poured some water, crouching to offer it to Anne who then put it gently to Katherine's lips. He had been concentrating on something internal – a tumour, a growth or abscess, an ulcer – and hadn't paid much attention to respiratory ailments, as Katherine didn't have an excessive cough or wheeze or anything to suggest an underlying difficulty. But what if…? His brows drew together… What if blood from her lungs is not a pointer to her illness, but another symptom of it?

She'd had influenza. Quite severely. Anne had visited her here over new year, a little over a month ago; she'd had to take a leave of absence after having the illness for months, so perhaps had been affected as far back as November. He should imagine the winters were harsher here along the coast; additionally, November was a demanding time for anyone in education, as he and Anne could attest to; Katherine Brooke was used to working long hours and perhaps not attending to her health as she should. She was a woman only in her mid to late twenties; her age, disposition and perhaps necessity would make her work through any illness; till she turned around and realised, astonished, that it had taken hold of her.

When is influenza not influenza? he puzzled as he watched Anne tending to Katherine, who had been feeling chilled when he had talked to her not an hour and a half ago but now looked as at the onset of a new fever, her face flushed unhealthily, her distinctive dark brows drawn as if to ward off pain. Her fever had obviously spiked so dangerously two nights ago the Matron and the Director were afraid she would not last the morrow, and had telegrammed Anne. But then the fever had broken, and she had enjoyed a period of time when it looked like her condition would improve; but what if this was not a turning of the corner? What if it had merely been a stay of execution? A terrible pattern of its own?

He took a despairing sigh.

"Mr Blythe…" Matron intoned warningly, indicating the fresh nightgown she held in her hands.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Excuse me." Decency had been forgotten in his distraction; Anne's look to him was gentle.

He made his way towards the door.

"Anne?" an unknown force made him beckon her over.

"Gilbert?" she queried, coming towards him. Something in his heart closed over. Would he ever hear Gil from her again?

He swallowed carefully. "When you are helping Miss Brooke to redress… can you… can you check for any marks?"

"Any marks?"

He flushed. "I don't even know what to tell you, Anne. Just things I cannot see. Just any…"

"Do you mean sores or… bruises? Rashes?"

"Yes! Yes, exactly!"

Goodness, but she would make an excellent nurse. She who talked through Shakespeare and poetry… was also quick and brave and a little unflinching. Perhaps her life so far had made her that way… He had an image flash before him, vibrant and vivid… of he, as doctor, working in some unknown practice or hospital, and of Anne nursing beside him, caring and calm. It was so powerful and persuasive he had to rapidly blink it away.

Do not put your own dreams and projections onto her… Katherine Brooke reminded him in his head, reproachfully.

"I will look out for anything, Gilbert," Anne was saying firmly, and her unquestioning faith in him to even accept his crazy, unschooled request encouraged as powerful a response in him as her kisses had done.

He nodded and ducked out, before Matron Burgess, who was glaring fiercely now, had him personally escorted from the premises.

Anne appeared at the doorway of the broom cupboard non-room some twenty minutes later.

Gilbert had been buried in The Physician's Hand-book; he looked up with a start to see her, and they were both silent for a moment; his tired eyes still drank her in as hers seemed to do the same, and the tiny blushing smile of acknowledgement she gave was an echo of so much that had happened outside only an hour or so ago.

"Ah… Gil…bert…" she hesitated, and he smiled at the almost-reference.

Maybe kissing her – kissing each other – almost senseless before had given him some additional insight into her character and her hesitancy now.

"Anne…" he stood.

"I just… I mean… we haven't had a chance to…"

"I know, Anne. Please don't worry. It's a beautiful book – the most beautiful book ever – but we've just had to put it on the shelf for now. Very temporarily. I promise you we will get it down again when the time is right."

Her grey eyes were large on his. She smiled at his metaphor.

"Thank you, Gilbert. Thank you… I just didn't want you to think that the book… that it didn't mean… anything to me. It means… it means… a great deal."

"And to me, Anne," he had walked the two steps to be standing before her, and his eyes seemed to burn in their sockets. "More than anything."

He could kiss her, easily. He could bend down and kiss her and blunt some of the pain and frustration and uncertainty that hovered around and outside of them. He longed to, with every part of him. But it wasn't what she needed from him right now, even if she would almost certainly, he felt, accept and embrace the kiss and respond to it in kind.

"So…" he cleared his throat. "How's Miss Brooke?"

"Resting. She took some water. She is quite warm again though… however she has plenty of cool washcloths courtesy of Miss Baker," she gave gentle smile.

"Ah, yes, Miss Baker."

"I… I had Matron check with me with regard to any, ah, rashes and such, Gilbert. There were none that we could see. We were very thorough – or as thorough as Katherine let us be."

He couldn't stop his frown. "Oh, well, that is a very good thing, then, I believe…."

"You thought there might be?"

He sighed, and passed a hand through his curls. "I don't know what I'm doing here, as you know, Anne. But I thought there might be. It would at least signify something as to why she is still sick in this manner. But as I say…" he shrugged.

"Well, there was only her foot, but that was properly bandaged several days ago."

Gilbert's brows flew upwards. "Her foot?"

"Yes – apparently she got out of bed the first time, before her bad fever when they telegrammed. She had injured her ankle when she was unsteady and the doctor had already been to bandage it and then they brought him out again for her fever… I hear he was most displeased to be called out again," she rolled her eyes.

"Is it still bandaged now?" he tried to remember seeing anything, but Katherine's nightdress had obscured her lower half, and he wasn't in the habit of staring at a lady's legs if he could possibly help it.

"Of course. The doctor said to rest it. It still is troubling her a little, but it was a very bad sprain I'm told."

"Would she let me see it?"

Anne was taken aback by his changed tone.

"You mean… now?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Gilbert…" Anne hesitated. "We've just got her settled again… Matron has finally gone to bed; she's exhausted and in very ill humour. Even Miss Baker is sitting with her for an hour or so and has calmed herself…"

"I'd be quick, Anne. I wouldn't ask unnecessarily."

"I know that…" she looked up at him, agonised. "It's just that it's bandaged very carefully and…"

"I'm OK with bandages. Uncle Dave – the doctor uncle – taught me."

Anne chewed pensively on her lower lip.

"Would we need to fetch Matron again?"

"No, I shouldn't think so, if you and Miss Baker are both there. And if Miss Brooke agrees."

They stole back across the floor and through the mahogany doors into the private area beyond. Gilbert led the way till they paused again outside Katherine Brooke's door.

He waited whilst Anne went inside.

A few moments later she beckoned him back in. Katherine Brooke did not look well. Her breathing was laboured and a fine sheen of sweat drenched her flushed brow.

"Miss Brooke…" he ventured, after nodding to the perpetually flummoxed Miss Baker. "Excuse the impertinence of yet another intrusion, particularly after the night you have already had, but may I…"

"You may indeed examine my ankle, Mr Blythe," Katherine Brooke offered through gritted teeth. "It throbs so I care not at the moment if you desire to cut it off."

Gilbert could not help his askance look to Anne, before bending down to Katherine Brooke, who had been moved across from the bed to the chair once more, breathing through her pain the whole while.

"You are in some discomfort there, Miss Brooke," he murmured, mostly to stop his long fingers from shaking as he attempted to remove the bandage with less deftness than he had hoped. He unravelled it with trepidation. And what he saw made him pause, hazel eyes wide.

Katherine Brooke's foot was deep red, tracing the transition to purple.

Gilbert looked from the foot to its owner to Anne to the foot again.

"Miss Brooke – you say you sprained it?" he puzzled.

"Sprained… tripped on…" Katherine Brooke breathed. "Semantics, Mr… Blythe."

"May I?" he indicated, and then raised Katherine Brooke's leg slightly, to look all about the ankle and the foot itself, including between toes and the padding in the instep and underneath to the heel and the arch. He thought perhaps there had to be a nick in the skin or a graze or sore somewhere to account for this level of infection, but his examination was interrupted.

"Mr Blythe!' came Matron's unmistakeable voice through the door. "What on the Lord's good earth is the meaning of this?"

He could not account for the Matron coming back in this instant, except her senses must prickle whenever he ventured outside his broom cupboard.

He relinquished Katherine Brooke's ankle as carefully as possible, and straightened with determination.

"I was following a suspicion just now, Matron Burgess. And you can see quite clearly for yourself that Miss Brooke needs a doctor again. Urgently."

Matron looked to Katherine Brooke's ankle, as if it personally offended her.

"A sore ankle, Mr Blythe? That the doctor should come out at two o'clock in the morning to attend to a sore ankle that he has already seen to and bandaged?"

"Matron…." Anne attempted to interrupt.

"Miss Shirley!" Matron's look and tone was sharp. "There has been nothing from yourself and Mr Blythe but unending interruptions since the moment of your arrival!"

"An arrival that you precipitated, Matron!" Anne pleaded. "Miss Katherine is still very sick – one does not vomit for nothing! She has a fever creeping up again and if its anything like you described the first time then she does need a doctor immediately!"

Matron Burgess looked from he to Anne in exasperation.

"If we were to fetch the doctor…" her countenance darkened to that of a thundercloud during an especially bad storm.

"Matron Burgess, Ma'am," Gilbert interrupted, "I urge you to do so. More than that, I urge you to fetch a doctor who has not seen Miss Brooke recently. I have it on her good authority that the doctor who took clearly inefficient care of her ankle here considers her to be some sort of malingerer inventing illnesses for her own edification!"

"Mr Blythe! Of all the notions!" Matron blustered. "Not fetch the local doctor around the corner? Am I to suppose another doctor will fall from the sky as apples from an apple tree?"

At the mention of apple trees both he and Anne blushed a charmingly incriminating shade of crimson, which was thankfully overlooked amidst the general argument taking place.

"Would… would you fetch the doctor who knows Miss Brooke from his service to the High School?" a small, tentative voice drifted upwards. The three of them turned to survey Miss Baker, who had moved to sit by a very white faced Katherine Brooke, a hand on her arm in a show of solidarity.

Anne nodded emphatically. "That's a very good idea! Doctor McCubbin! He knows all of us from the High School!"

"Well done, Miss Baker!" he found himself adding, to the surprised delight of the frizzy haired young lady.

"And how are we to get a message to the doctor the other side of the town, even if he was to come? I have no magical errand boy at my disposal at this hour, Mr Blythe!"

Gilbert moved closer to the woman whom he was sure was good hearted, well beneath the surface of her institutionalised officiousness.

"Matron Burgess," he lowered his tone to be less confrontational, and his eyes were trained on her in earnest sincerity. "Surely we can do better for Miss Brooke, who is an esteemed member of staff at the High School, not to mention a longstanding friend of this very institution." And I won't dare even think about her importance to Anne. "Let me borrow the buggy, and with directions I will fetch the doctor myself."

The older woman wavered only slightly.

"Very well, then," she responded tightly, as if she wanted it known she was not pleased with this capitulation.

With a relieved smile, Anne fetched some paper in order to write directions; she would go with him in an instant, he knew, if not for the worry of leaving Katherine, the wrath of Matron Burgess at the impropriety, or the inconvenience of three of them sharing the bench seat once the doctor had hopefully joined them. He waited for her as she came back and pressed the paper to him, squeezing his hand.

"Thank you, Gilbert," she whispered, her eyes never leaving his.

His smile tried not to waver.

He turned back to the two seated ladies.

"I will be back as soon as I can, Miss Brooke."

"Thank you, Mr… Blythe…" Katherine Brooke answered, eyes glazed. "Be sure… to… not take… the ….scenic… route." She tried her best admonishment.

Gilbert smiled gamely at her, though his stomach twisted at her clear difficulty and agitation.

"I'll surely keep that in mind."

With a final glance at Anne, he followed Matron out, to fetch his jacket, gloves, scarf, coat, hat and pocketbook on the way to the small stables.

"Here, Mr Blythe," the Matron thrust something into his hand as he set off. "Our director, Mrs Llewelyn's card. For the doctor."

He tipped his hat and travelled down the long lane, stopping at the lamppost on the corner for light, unfolding Anne's directions.

At the bottom she had written

"I would not wish

Any companion in the world but you." *

He smiled to himself; it was Shakespeare, of course, though he was too weary to try to place it.

Instead, he tucked it into his breast pocket, close to his heart as she was, and set off.

Anne could well have just instructed him to follow the scent of the sea; as he came closer to the bustling town itself he also came closer to the harbour, which was in eerie early morning darkness, in the nevertime gulf between when late night workers stopped and early morning workers began. He wished for it to be the dreamy darkness they had shared under an apple tree, but the air here was biting and frigid, and he was glad to skirt the harbour and head upwards to the school.

It was definitely the monied part of town, with the change in architecture reminiscent of Kingsport, and the large, stately school Anne herself had taught at an elegant and impressive edifice. He would have liked to have paused to contemplate the image of her here, but it was certainly not the time, in more ways than one, and he pressed the horse on down another slope to a cluster of smart houses.

He arrived at the street, his fingers fumbling with the paper he again checked, and then he tethered the horse and stood before the door. How many had come before him, with prayers for a miracle the medic would tote in his doctor's bag? Would people knock on his own door one day with the same unguarded hope?

His large, long fingered hand rapped on the door resolutely.

It hadn't been as difficult to sway the surprisingly genial gentleman now sitting beside him in the buggy as Gilbert had feared, though the business card the Matron had given him certainly helped. Dr McCubbin made pleasant small talk with him as they made their way back from whence he had come, the good doctor not in the slightest way ruffled by the unusual circumstances or indeed the unfriendly hour.

"You're certainly a long way from Kingsport, young man," Doctor McCubbin offered.

"That I am, Sir," Gilbert agreed. "It was a sudden and rather unexpected journey for me."

"To the Girl's Home? Yes, I'm sure that it was," the doctor grinned unrepentantly. "And you know Miss Shirley, then?"

"Yes, Sir. We met in class at Redmond this past year. She is a very… good friend."

Gilbert didn't care to see his companion's amused countenance at this offering.

"Fine young lady, Miss Shirley. A great loss to that school back there. Though I dare say she's better off where she is. She enjoying Redmond, then?"

"Yes, very much, Sir. She's a natural scholar and appears to be enjoying the challenges of college immensely."

"Well, good for her. And what are you studying, lad? Is it all torturous poetry and Kings of England?"

Gilbert let out a laugh. "Some of it, Sir. But I am mostly majoring in the sciences."

"Really?" the doctor gave an interested sidelong glance. "To what end?"

"Well, er…" Gilbert faltered, glancing back at him, unaccountably coloring in the darkness.

The doctor's chuckle was soft and knowing. "Goodness, don't tell me, lad!" He nodded to the doctor's bag at his feet. "You know that this is what you're in for, don't you? Endlessly roused from your bed at all hours?"

Gilbert smiled and helplessly shrugged his shoulders.

There was a thoughtful pause.

"Your name's Blythe, did you say?"

"Yes, Sir. Gilbert Blythe, of Avonlea, near to Carmody."

The look to him was searching.

"Not related to a Doctor David Blythe, are you? Out in a place by Four Winds… er, Glen St Something?"

Now it was Gilbert's turn to chuckle in amazement.

"I am pleased to say that I am, Sir! You are referring there to my Great Uncle Dave, my father's uncle, of Glen St Mary."

"Well, well…" Dr McCubbin was highly amused by the coincidence. "How is the old devil? He and I trained together, you know. Haven't seen him for a decade, I should think."

"That's amazing, Sir!" Gilbert grinned, adding slyly, "and the old devil is doing very well."

Dr McCubbin chuckled heartily, and engaged in some enthusiastic anedotes regarding the erstwhile incumbent doctor of Glen St Mary and greater surrounds during their long ago training and residency.

"Most blundering attempts at diagnosis you ever saw," the doctor remembered fondly. "And you may tell him so when you next see him. Hiding out in his little village by the sea – he was going to go to Toronto or Montreal with me, you know."

"Surgery?" Gilbert asked, fascinated.

Dr McCubbin waved a dismissive hand.

"Never went through with it! Landed on his feet with his little posting and off he went. Mind you, look at me, not much better. I only lasted a few years in Toronto myself. Furious pace; unrelenting. I wasn't ambitious enough for all that city bowing and scraping nonsense. My mother was from here in Summerside, and she wasn't well, so I came back for her. Got a position that included the High School. Met a girl there who was teaching. Never looked back." He gave Gilbert a wink. "She was half Pringle, you know," he offered proudly. "Not that that will mean anything to you."

Gilbert couldn't help smiling.

"And you've liked it here, Sir? In general practice?"

"That I have, son. Enough variety to stave off boredom, not quite as pestered by the locals as your uncle would be. Helps to have a decent, understanding woman to come home to, mind. Keep that thought in your head when the time comes for you, lad."

Gilbert muzzled his sheepish smile.

"So…" Dr McCubbin nodded after a few minutes, his tone darkening. "You'd better fill me in on our beleaguered Miss Brooke."

"Sir?"

"Well, you've observed her, young Blythe. No doubt you have your own thoughts and theories on what's ailing her. And then there's this nasty foot business, too."

"Sir, I wouldn't begin to presume…."

"Nonsense! It's just two men talking; no harm done. And Lord knows you couldn't do any worse in your layman's assessment than Dave Blythe in the day, that's for sure."

Dr McCubbin swung into action with a quiet confidence, striding through the still-darkened building and into the private confines of the lower guest room. There was much curtseying and due deference shown that Gilbert noted with interest, including from Mrs Llewelyn, who had been regally roused from her slumber; he had seen it with Uncle Dave as well, and particularly with the staff out in Alberta, and had mused on the transition in status a medical course helped to fashion; making over mortals into gods. He had no notion of wanting the distinction for himself, but the inherent and unquestioning trust placed in the older man; the conferring of some sacred knowledge through books and instruction and practice and learned skills… he wondered if he would ever possess the inner resolution to accept this as his own, this faith a person had in another, even as he felt it in himself as the doctor examined Miss Brooke, whilst it seemed the entire adult population of the Home hovered outside in the passageway.

Doctor McCubbin reemerged, wiping the hands he had washed with one of Miss Baker's clean washcloths, his bushy grey brows taking in the assembled party; he and Anne by one side of the door, the Matron and Mrs Llewelyn on the other, and Miss Baker in the middle, as if she didn't quite know with whom to align herself.

"Miss Brooke has a very bad fever which is climbing again, as Mr Blythe on the way here informed me also happened several nights ago. We must tackle it with resolution; it can't be allowed to get away from us. I will need a constant supply of cold water, both for drinking and for sponge baths, with appropriate cloths and towels."

The Matron nodded, prepared to take charge of this necessity.

"Miss Brooke also has an extremely bad infection in her foot, and I believe we can thank Mr Blythe here for its discovery. Some small wound or other was not attended to or known when it was bandaged and it has been given free rein to fester… for nigh on a week, it would seem… and this is causing difficulties. I must bathe the wound in special lime solution to cleanse it, and then try to bleed the infection from it… only time will tell if this infection is related to Miss Brooke's temperature and vomiting… Her system has already been weakened by her influenza and so has found it difficult to fight this new affront." He paused, looking again at each individual carefully. "I cannot tell you but the situation is quite serious. You did well to summon me. I will be staying for a good while yet. I'm afraid you must prepare yourselves for a long day ahead."

This news caused suitably grave concern and worried murmurings, before the assorted residents and visitors were tasked with their various roles. Matron was to fetch additional bowls, cloths, towels and water; Miss Baker was to wake Cook early and organise a steady supply of tea and refreshments, including an immediate cup for the good doctor; Mrs Llewelyn went to wake the two younger matrons upstairs, and then her assistant Miss Wethers, to inform of the suspension of teaching classes today and of general circumstances. Anne and Gilbert were to stay close to the doctor and fetch him anything that had been forgotten, and for Anne to tend Miss Brooke for the time being under the doctor's instruction.

"Miss Shirley, so good to see you again," the older man smiled kindly.

"And you, Doctor. Thank you so much for coming!"

"Well, I can't see as I had very much choice," Dr McCubbin chuckled, glancing at Gilbert. "I have a feeling Mr Blythe was prepared to be most insistent."

Anne paused to smile at him, before turning back to the doctor.

"What can I do, Dr McCubbin?" she asked, in a wavering tone that made Gilbert's heart wrench.

"Sit with her. Keep her well hydrated. Plenty of liquids are needed to combat the infection as well as to help her blood flow when it comes to the blood letting."

"Thank you, Doctor. Should I…?"

"By all means," he nodded, and they both watched Anne slip back into the room.

Dr McCubbin looked to Gilbert, his expression clouded.

"Doctor?" he himself now queried. "Do you… do you think the infection has spread?"

The older man's mouth pursed, and he flicked a glance at the partially opened guest room door. "Take a walk with me, son."

Gilbert accompanied the doctor along the passageway and out the mahogany doors, ironically coming to a stop beside him by the wide windows leading to outside.

"Right, now," the doctor continued, "what we are going to now discuss is in the strictest confidence."

"Yes, of course, Sir."

"I must admit that I am most worried about the very possibility you have mentioned."

Gilbert felt himself quail. "Blood poisoning, Sir?"

"Indeed. Or septicaemia, in medical circles."

"Sir, is that likely?"

"It is unfortunately likely, yes. Miss Brooke has already had a previous illness that gives her a susceptibility, the influenza, which I myself treated her for back… well, before Christmas, at any rate. It had laid her low, but she had worked through it, because, well, I believe you may have come to know Miss Brooke's personality." He gave a wry smile, which Gilbert returned.

"I have indeed, Sir."

"So well may you believe she worked until she dropped, quite literally. Fainted dead away in class. They made her take a Leave of Absence, then, in order to get over it. By that time she was laid very low. We did the best we could for her at the High School, but then Christmas came, and I saw her settled back here. I had the chance to visit her once, and then I took my own leave to visit with my children, and I heard from the local doctor here that she was improving, so I left it there. I'm rather sorry I did, because she has obviously tried to do too much, too soon.. got up and injured her ankle, and even a small nick, with her compromised system…"

"The infection took hold," Gilbert frowned.

The doctor sighed. "Indeed."

"The fevers… and the alternate chills…?" Gilbert ventured.

"Yes, they could all be signs of early septicaemia. Then again, they could all be carried over from the influenza. The two have very similar symptoms. Difficult to make a diagnosis. That's why we often get to patients too late."

Something in Gilbert's expression made the doctor pause.

"Look, young Blythe, there is still hope yet. Nothing is conclusive. I grant you, it's all a frightening proposition. The infection takes hold, wreaks havoc on the body, and it goes into shock. All the vital organs begin to shut down. If septicaemia turns to sepsis it's a truly terrible business. Terrible. Young new mothers with puerperal fever… amputations in hospitals gone wrong… Luckily I don't see it as often as some. Time is of real importance here. The longer this goes, the better."

Gilbert's brow furrowed, thinking on this.

"The longer the better, because sepsis would turn things quickly?"

"More quickly than you can imagine, son. Two to three days, mostly. Now how long has it been for Miss Brooke? What day is it now?" Dr McCubbin shook his head in admonishment to himself.

"I hardly know, Doctor…" Gilbert replied blearily, running a hand through his hair. "It's Wednesday… no, I beg your pardon, it's Thursday morning."

Dr McCubbin consulted a handsome gold pocketwatch, squinting in the gloom. "Half past four…" He retrieved his little notebook from his jacket pocket to make some quick calculations.

"Now, let's see… You received the telegram in Kingsport sometime very late Tuesday afternoon, but it was sent early that morning… meaning Miss Brooke was dangerously ill with her first fever over Monday night… she recovers by late Tuesday evening when you see her here… is fairly untroubled but weak through Wednesday… then last night – or early this morning Thursday – she turns again, and we repeat the process. Only…" he paused, frowning excessively, "that the state of the infection in her foot has worsened."

There were several beats of silence.

"What can I do, doctor?" Gilbert implored, a conscious echo of Anne only minutes ago.

Doctor McCubbin gave him a long look.

"We will know which way the wind is blowing today. Stay close to that young lady of yours. See that she gets some rest in a moment – and you yourself besides - or you'll be no good to anyone. Miss Brooke will be exhausted after the blood letting at any rate. I can always wake you… if it is needed."

He let this information sink in.

"And I find I am never averse to prayer, either."

Gilbert gave a watery smile.

"Buck up, son." He clapped him on the shoulder. "You worked on an educated hunch… found the source of infection… came and sought me. You've given Miss Brooke a fighting chance. Don't forget it."

He smiled slightly, nodded, and strode back to where his patient waited.

Gilbert looked out of the wide glass doors, watching the first fingers of dawn stretch themselves out across the sky. Katherine Brooke had to live. She had to. She was the only person Anne had left. Her family.

He would like to position himself in that role as well – as her family, as her love, as her everything- but he had the sneaking fear that no matter how he tried, and no matter how much he desired it, that he alone, for Anne, would not quite be enough.

Chapter Notes

"Anne read hers that bitter night, as she kept her agonised vigil through the hours of storm and darkness." Anne of the Island Ch. 40

*from William Shakespeare The Tempest (Act 3 Sc 1)