The Snow Gypsy(83)

She opened her eyes wide, gazing up at the stars, willing herself to stay awake until he fell asleep. Then she would tuck the blanket around him and creep off to bed.



When Rose opened her eyes the next morning, she was aware that something was wrong. Nieve’s face was so close that her features were blurred, but even without clear vision, Rose could tell that it looked different. Propping herself up on the pillow, she gasped in alarm. Nieve’s face was covered in an angry scarlet rash.

“Mama . . .” Nieve murmured the word in her sleep, tossing her head from one side of the bed to the other.

“It’s all right,” Rose whispered. She laid her hand gently on Nieve’s forehead. It was burning hot. “I’m going to fetch something to cool you down—I won’t be a minute.”

She ran into the kitchen and poured water into a bowl. She was about to carry it back to the bedroom when Zoltan appeared in the doorway. She turned to him, her face creased with worry.

“What’s the matter? Is it Nieve?”

“She’s burning up—there’s a rash all over her face. I think she might have measles—or chicken pox.”

Zoltan looked as though he’d seen a ghost.

“What?” Rose stared at him. “Do you know what it is?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.” He pressed his lips together until they disappeared. “I heard in the village yesterday that there’s an outbreak of typhus. A couple of people who work in the silk-weaving shed have gone down with it. I wondered whether Pilar . . .”

“Pilar has typhus?” Panic rose like bile in Rose’s throat.

“I don’t know.” Zoltan sounded wretched. “I should have asked. It . . . didn’t occur to me.”

“We need a doctor.” Rose scoured the cottage with her eyes, ranging over the ibex horns above the fireplace, the wolf-skin rug on the floor, the kettle in the hearth, as if the person they needed were concealed in the walls or under the floorboards.

“Yes—of course. But shall I fetch Maria first?”

“Can she cure typhus?” Rose had never doubted the power of herbs to heal. But would anything Maria had be strong enough for a disease known to kill the weak and vulnerable?

“I don’t know. She’ll know what to do, though, while I go for the doctor.”



Maria’s face gave nothing away when Zoltan brought her into the bedroom. She asked Rose to undress Nieve so that she could see the full extent of the rash on her body. The child was barely conscious. She groaned when Rose undid the buttons of her nightdress, as if the slightest touch was painful.

“Sí,” Maria muttered under her breath. “Es tabardillo.”

“?Tabardillo?” Rose repeated.

Zoltan reached for her hand. “It’s what people round here call typhus. Red cloak. Because of the rash.”

Maria motioned for them to follow her into the kitchen. She took a bunch of something bundled in brown paper from the bag slung over her shoulder. When she unwrapped it, Rose recognized the plant by the small emerald seed cases beading the creeperlike stems. In Britain it was called goosegrass. She had a vivid memory of Nathan getting covered in the sticky seeds after rolling about with Gunesh the day he came to say goodbye to her in Sussex.

“This is good for all fevers,” Maria said. “Take a handful, pound it in a pestle and mortar, then infuse it in warm milk. Give her two tablespoons three times a day if she can take it. If not, use it as a poultice on her forehead and give her water with a little lemon and honey to drink.” She turned to Rose, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes deepening. “Keeping the fever down is all you can hope for. I wish I could do more for her.”

Rose didn’t trust herself to speak. She felt as if her throat had swollen up and closed over. She glanced at Zoltan, tears brimming.

“The doctor must have something stronger,” he said. “Give Nieve some of that while I go and fetch him.”

“I’m afraid the doctor won’t be able to offer you anything more effective than this,” Maria replied. “You’re going to have to be very brave, Rose. There’s a war raging inside that little body, and the odds are not good.”



It was well past noon by the time Zoltan returned with the doctor. Typhus was spreading its deadly tentacles through Pampaneira. Half a dozen new cases had been reported in the past twenty-four hours, Pilar among them. One of the silk weavers—a woman in her late sixties—had died in the night.

Rose went through the motions of greeting the doctor, but she felt completely numb as she led him through to where Nieve lay. The child was thrashing about on the bed, her eyes wild, as if nightmarish scenes were appearing on the walls. She no longer recognized Rose. The only words she uttered were Mama and agua. Water was all she could take. The herbal mixture had made her vomit the moment it passed her lips.

The examination took no more than a minute. “She has the severest form of the disease—a strain brought over from Spanish Morocco. The flies are spreading it—they’re very bad this year.” The doctor tucked his stethoscope back into his bag. Then he said, in quick Spanish to Zoltan, that Nieve was dying and Rose must be prepared for this.

“?Cuándo?” When? Rose spoke the word without looking at him.

“Any hour,” he replied in a low, gruff voice. “Three days at the most.”