Over the next few weeks, a dozen more passengers fell ill and died. Mrs. Abernathy grew increasingly anxious for her family, and panic set in when little Caroline showed unmistakable signs of a rash and fever.

"She will not eat," Mrs. Abernathy said to her husband. "She will not drink." Margaret had seen that wild-eyed look before in Artemis, whenever the horse was spooked and on the precipice of revolt. It took a careful hand to soothe her.

"She will be fine," Mr. Abernathy crooned in conciliatory tones.

"But we are still a week from making land!"

"Come now," he said, as he led his wife to the edge of the bed. "Sit and take some brandy and a bit of food. You cannot nurse our daughter if you are unwell yourself."

Mrs. Abernathy looked unwell already as it was. She had been gripped with bouts of seasickness throughout their journey, and the pale skin of her face was drawn tight over her bones. Fatigue dulled her eyes. Margaret dipped a cloth in a basin of tepid water and placed it across her sister's forehead. She worried neither Caroline nor her mother would survive the journey. And then what would become of them? She idolized her father, yet her mother was the heart of the family. Little Caroline was its soul. Weary from worry and heartache, Margaret leaned forward and rested her head against Caroline's small chest.

"You shouldn't sit so close to her," Eliza whispered, her voice trembling. She cried all the time now, though no longer for Willy.

Slowly, Margaret lifted her head and turned to look at her sister. Her head felt heavy, and her eyes burned. "What?"

"The rash," Eliza said. Her face crumpled and she bit her bottom lip. "You shouldn't . . . you shouldn't sit so close." She covered her mouth with her hand, though the tears spilled out anyway.

Thomas knelt beside Margaret and lay a hand on her shoulder. "Are you well, Meg?"

"I'm fine," she responded automatically.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asked, not to be deterred.

"I'll sleep when Caroline is up and playing once more."

Thomas placed the back of his hand against her forehead, which she batted away, her eyes narrowed at him. "You're feverish," he said.

"I'm fine. I'm tired is all."

"Then come lie down beside Mother," Thomas said. He wrapped his hand around her arm and tried to pull her away, but she refused.

"I will not leave her, Tommy. You cannot make me leave her."

"It's okay," Eliza said, always placating. "You are Caroline's favorite. She needs you. You give her strength."

There was a knock at the door, and Mr. Abernathy rose from his place beside his wife to answer the call. "Miss Abbott," he said, surprise evident in his voice. "What are you doing here at this late hour?"

Margaret craned her head, though she couldn't see beyond her father's figure. Mrs. Abernathy had risen from the bed and come to stand next to her. The hand she placed on Margaret's shoulder was like a vise.

"I understand the child is ill," Margaret heard Abigail say. "I brought something that might help."

"Let her in," Margaret called to her father. Her mother's grip on her shoulder tightened even more. When Margaret looked up into her mother's face, she saw fear in her eyes. "It will be okay, Mother," she said, placing her hand on top of her mother's. "Abigail is here to help."

Mr. Abernathy opened the door all the way, admitting the girl, who strode in with purpose. She carried a small basket slung over her forearm, which she removed and placed on a small table set against the wall. "I've already summoned for a pot of boiled water from the kitchen," she said as she began removing various bottles from her basket.

Margaret rose and joined Abigail at the table. She picked up one of the bottles, though the dim light in the cabin made it virtually impossible to distinguish its contents. "Can you cure her?" she asked, quietly enough so that no one else could hear.

Abigail paused, though she didn't meet Margaret's eyes. "I cannot," she whispered. "Though I can ease her suffering until she transitions. That is no little thing."

"Transitions?" Margaret asked weakly.

The muscles of her chest contracted, squeezing so tightly she thought she would asphyxiate from the horrible truth of what was to come. She clenched her teeth and took several deep breaths through her nose, determined to master her emotions. She would not let her family suffer the knowledge of imminent death, not when they were still clinging to hope.

Another knock came, and Mr. Abernathy opened the door to reveal one of the lads from the kitchen bearing a pot of hot water, steam rising like a serpent from its spout. "Place it here, Eli," Abigail ordered. He did as he was told and, with a brief bow to the room, retreated without a word. Still, Margaret hadn't missed how his eyes had widened briefly when he caught sight of Caroline. The rash was unmistakable and angry.

"I will prepare a tea," Abigail said. "All of you must drink it."

"Tea?" her mother asked. "What good will tea do?"

"It will soothe your spirit," Abigail replied with a sympathetic smile.

Her mother made a very unladylike noise and waved a dismissive hand in Abigail's direction. Usually a woman of dignity and high regard for social propriety, her behavior told the story of anguish and worry for her youngest child.

"Thank you," Eliza said in her mother's place. "That is very kind of you."

"Think nothing of it," Abigail replied. "I've grown quite fond of your family."

*****

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