22. The Gray-Robed Monk 9

This is hardly the right time to come down with a fever.

After a period of brewing, the plague had fully demonstrated its power to everyone—the piles of corpses outside were undeniable proof. No one could remain perfectly calm after seeing so many dead.

Even though Phyllis knew that the bubonic plague typically had a two-to-three-day incubation period, and Francesco had been with the caravan members for the past few days, the fact that he was the only one running a fever meant it was highly likely just a common cold. But at this precise moment, his sudden illness would only ignite panic in everyone’s hearts.

Through her pocket, she squeezed the small spinning top, took a deep breath, and resolved to head downstairs.

As expected, when Phyllis hurried to the room on the first floor, she heard voices coming from behind the ajar door.

"...We have to find a doctor..."

"Be realistic. Look at the outside world—where are you going to find a doctor? Even if one were still alive, how much would it cost to get them to leave their home? Are you going to pay for the house call? The travel money he gave us doesn't cover this!"

"But... we can't just leave him here. He might not even be..."

"Lord above, Andrea! You’ve certainly found a surplus of kindness at a time like this!"

One of the voices suddenly rose, then quickly hushed, speaking in a sharp, rapid-fire tone: "You aren't the only one in this caravan. Are you trying to get us all killed for his sake?!"

The heated voices drew closer. Before Phyllis could react, a hand pulled the door open.

The leader of the caravan looked anxious, deep furrows etched into his brow, and the two young men behind him looked much the same. As they passed Phyllis, they didn't spare a glance for the child standing by the door, each lost in their own thoughts, strides long and urgent, as if they were about to vanish down the hallway...

"Um... Mr. Marino."

A rather youthful voice came from behind. The caravan leader frowned, turned, and was somewhat surprised to see a face he didn't quite recognize.

He remembered this child; he was the one traveling with the grey-robed friar. However, compared to Friar Salvatore, he had almost no impression of this child throughout the journey. He only recalled that he was the child of Master Giovanni’s close friend, and had chipped a tooth on a piece of bread on the first day out of Aska. Perhaps that was why he was so quiet, rarely interacting with anyone else in the caravan—he doubted anyone else even remembered his name.

By comparison, Francesco, who had only started "hitchhiking" a few days ago, had a much stronger presence.

"I remember you're Phyllis, the one from Aska, right?"

Out of respect for the grey-robed friar and Master Giovanni, the caravan leader finally stopped and asked patiently, "Is there something you need, coming down so early?"

Phyllis hadn't actually fully prepared her excuse, but the man clearly lacked patience, so she pointed directly at the door beside her. "Is Francesco sick?"

Seeing the surprise on all three men's faces, she immediately heaved a heavy sigh. "I knew he was sick! I told him yesterday that it was cold at night, and that taking a bath in cold water would definitely give him a cold, but he just wouldn't listen... Now he’s going to suffer for it!"

This speech was long and deliberate, dripping with a heavy sense of performance. Yet, because of her age, her innocent little face softened the artificial emphasis quite a bit. After all, she was still a child; in most people's subconscious, they didn't believe a seven- or eight-year-old could harbor any schemes against adults.

Antonio, standing behind the man, felt his eyes light up at this, and he couldn't help but plead with his uncle again: "Exactly, maybe it’s just a common cold. Perhaps he'll be fine after a couple of days of rest; wasn't our plan to stay here for two days anyway..."

"Are you a doctor now, too?" The caravan leader couldn't help but scoff, his face hardening. "The past is the past, and now is now. If he has actually caught the plague, every extra moment we spend with him is a risk!"

Watching the young man deflate again, Phyllis couldn't help but interject: "Why do you think he caught the plague? Have those terrible black sores appeared on his body?"

"Well, no..." the man muttered hesitantly, though his brow furrowed again a second later. "But those black sores often appear in the later stages. It’s normal not to have them when the illness first starts..."

"Then you can check if he has any lumps, especially in his armpits or inner thighs. If he really has the plague, and his body has already started to heat up, there would at least be some rashes, chest pain, coughing up blood, and his tongue and throat would turn black... The symptoms wouldn't just be a fever." Phyllis pointed to several parts of her own body and continued, "Of course, some people have no other symptoms besides a high fever, but such people usually die within a few hours of the onset. When did he start running a fever? The people sharing the room with him should know, right?"

This time, her words were clearly more coherent—perhaps a bit *too* coherent, leaving the three adults opposite her stunned.

"...Where did you learn all of this?"

After a long silence, the caravan leader was the first to speak. "Is what you’re saying true? How do you know so much?"

Phyllis had already thought of a reason for this. However, before the words could leave her lips, another voice spoke for her.

"I once cared for a friar who fell ill at the Rena Monastery. That friar had also cared for many plague victims before he himself became ill; these were the experiences he summarized. I believe them to be trustworthy..."

The grey-robed friar walked down from the second floor, patted the girl gently on the shoulder, and looked at the three men.

"I understand your concerns, Mr. Marino, but that is also a human life," Friar Salvatore said. "At least let me go see him. If he truly has the plague, I will care for him in that room. If not, I ask that you give him two more days to recover. Is that possible?"

"..."

"Since you've put it that way..." The man struggled for a long moment before sighing helplessly. "But I must discuss this with Mr. Fortune. I can make decisions for my own team, but for his, it's not certain..."

"Thank you for your kindness. May the Lord bless you." The grey-robed friar narrowed his eyes at the dark clouds outside the window. Only after a burst of birdsong ceased did he continue, "Even without this matter, I would not advise you to leave today. A heavy storm is about to hit, and if you and Mr. Fortune do not wish for your goods to be soaked, it would be best to wait until the rain stops before departing."

"Oh, certainly. I will relay that to him..."

...

Just... like that?

Watching the backs of the three men as they walked away, Phyllis, still holding a belly full of unspeakable excuses, remained surprised, her gaze drifting toward the old friar beside her.

Although she had some vague guesses about his "uniqueness," to have someone with such a firm stance concede after just a few short sentences... At this moment, Phyllis felt lucky from the bottom of her heart. She was lucky he was truly a kind man, otherwise...

"Cough, cough, cough..."

Before she could delve deeper into her thoughts, the wooden door beside her opened, followed by a wheezing sound that was clearly abnormal.

This was no time to relax.

Phyllis took out her handkerchief to cover her mouth and nose and hurried into the room.

There was no one else in the room now but the three of them. Francesco lay on a bed near the window. By the dim light filtering in from outside, Phyllis could barely make out his tightly closed eyes and flushed cheeks.

Friar Salvatore had already sat by the bed and was rolling up the boy's sleeve to check him.

Long before the old friar finished his examination in the dim light, Professor Pileuso, acting as a ghost, had already reached his conclusion.

"He truly has no lumps or black sores on him..." The ghost drifted back to Phyllis’s side and sighed. "But even if he hasn't caught the plague, if his temperature doesn't come down soon, it’s hard to say..."

On the other side, Friar Salvatore clearly reached the same conclusion, sighing as he straightened the boy's clothes. Just as he prepared to stand up and say something, the previously motionless boy suddenly grabbed his arm.

"...I beg you... cough... do not leave me..."

"I still have money... cough, cough... I still have money... please help me..."

The boy’s eyes remained closed; he did not seem to be awake, only muttering incoherent, dreamlike words.

"I still have money... I still have money... please help me..." he sobbed, tears or sweat streaming from the corners of his eyes down his cheeks, his words becoming even more blurred. "Don't go... please don't go... Mother..."

"Good child, I will not go."

The hunched, grey-robed friar sat back down by the bed, gently stroking the boy’s sweat-soaked forehead. "Don't worry, you will be fine..."

Perhaps it was the softness of his voice that calmed the boy; he slowly quieted down and drifted back into a coma, yet his hand gripped the friar’s sleeve with stubborn persistence, refusing to let go.

"...Forgive me, child, but I must trouble you to do me a favor."

Friar Salvatore looked at his gripped sleeve and looked up at Phyllis helplessly. "Could you help me ask the innkeeper for a bucket of water? I must sponge him down as soon as possible."

"Of course."

Phyllis agreed without hesitation.

However, she didn't go to the innkeeper immediately. Instead, she found a quiet corner, looked around, and beckoned her personal ghost to her side.

"Do you know of any medicine that can reduce a fever?" she whispered. "There must be an apothecary in a city this big, right?"

Even if it were hard to find a doctor now, taking some fever-reducing medicine should at least provide a fighting chance. In Phyllis's experience, when she got sick with a fever, she would just take medicine and rest in bed; a normal cold would break within a day. In serious cases, a fever-reducing injection at the hospital would fix it.

The problem was, she had no idea what ingredients were in modern fever-reducing injections, and even if she did, she couldn't concoct them now... She only hoped this "encyclopedia" beside her could offer some reliable medieval fever-reducing remedy.

"There is an apothecary shop. I saw it when we passed by yesterday, but I've never heard of any medicine that can break a fever?"

Seeing the girl’s expression fall, Professor Pileuso quickly offered his professional advice: "Medicine is useless for his condition. If he hasn't caught the plague, it must be a fever caused by an imbalance of bodily humors. If you really can't find a doctor, you could find a barber-surgeon to bleed him."