July 23rd, 1518 (Friday)

  The summer of 1518 in Strasbourg was turning out to be one of the hottest and most uncomfortable in recent memory.

  The streets sweltered in the heat. Fruits and vegetables spoiled faster than they could be sold. The flies were thick even before midday. Gutters ran slowly, clogged by kitchen waste, fat skimming their surface. The street dogs kept to the shadows of buildings and under carts and stairwells.

  However, the younger people of the city were in good spirits, making the most of the longer days under the summer sun. Thomas Albrecht, a local physician, walked along the edge of the river Ill, where the narrow walkway was less crowded and the breeze from the Ill offered a pleasant cooling effect. The river smelled worse than usual, carrying the stench of discarded fish guts and tannery runoff. He moved carefully, avoiding the slimy patches where refuse had congealed.

  In one hand, he carried a cloth-wrapped bottle of beer. The other rested on the strap of his satchel, made of worn leather and tied with a bit of red cord. His coat was patched at the elbows, the hem darkened from years of wear. But it was clean. He was a fairly handsome man with a tall, wiry frame, a square jaw, and intelligent features that gave him a calm, calculating presence. His brown hair, often combed back neatly, had just begun to thin at the crown, a detail only really noticeable from behind.

  Thomas took care with his appearance, even if his reputation had not yet caught up with his skill. He began practising medicine at the age of 23 and, now at 28, he had five years of experience, a steady stream of clients, and a modest but growing reputation. People sought him out, though not always as their first choice.

  The markets were restless. Grain deliveries from upriver were late again. Merchants argued behind closed shutters, trying not to raise their voices. They didn’t always succeed. A baker cursed about mildew in the flour while slapping a fly off his neck. A fishwife rinsed scales from her hands into the street.

  Thomas passed the Cathedral Square. Pigeons pecked at breadcrumbs near the steps. Two beggars sat beneath the arcade, arms outstretched. One had a club foot while the other showed his ruined teeth.

  As he passed them, Thomas spat once. Then again, over his shoulder.

  It was more instinctive than anything else, an old habit passed down from the morbid and terrifying days of the bubonic plague, the most recent outbreak of which the city had endured just 14 years back.

  ***

  Behind St. Thomas’ Church, the cloisters offered shelter from the sun. The stone helped keep them relatively cool, even as the rest of the city baked. A gentle breeze carried the sharp scent of herbs such as rue, lavender and wormwood from the garden of the nearby Dominican Monastery.

  Gretchen Vogt was waiting. She sat on a low ledge where the wall behind her provided shade from the sun. A towel-wrapped loaf of bread sat beside her. Her dress was plain, the sleeves pushed up. Her dirty blond hair was tied back in a way that looked careless, although Thomas knew it wasn’t. She had always been deliberate about these little details.

  He slowed as he stepped under the arch.

  "Still alive then," she smiled up at him.

  He laughed. "Very observant of you."

  Gretchen took the bottle as he handed it to her, unwrapped it carefully and took a swig. He sat next to her on the ledge, close but not touching. Their arms brushed as she passed the beer back.

  The bread was still warm. She tore it in half and gave him the larger piece.

  For a while, they ate and drank without saying a word. A bee buzzed around the rosemary shrubs.

  Gretchen leaned back, resting her head against his chest. "Do you think the sun moves slower in this part of the city? Or maybe it’s everything, not just the sun."

  "Or maybe we're the only ones not in a hurry," Thomas said, chewing thoughtfully. "I passed a man yelling about a rotten apple on my way here. He nearly threw it at a child."

  "It’s the heat," Gretchen replied. "Makes people mean. Or plain stupid.”

  After a pause, she added, “Or both."

  She glanced towards the church wall. "My mother says it’s punishment. She says when the bread goes bad and tempers flare, it's a sign the heavens are winding up for something."

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  Thomas made a face. "And what do you say?"

  "I say the flour from Hessekorn Mill smells like puke. That’s not divine punishment, that’s poor storage."

  He laughed quietly to himself. Gretchen had been complaining to him about the flour and bread from Hessekorn for weeks now. And Thomas was the only person she could vent to. Her father was the one who got the bread, and she didn’t dare mention it to him.

  "Sounds like you’d make a better physician than half the men on the guild," said Thomas.

  She gave a modest shrug. "Then you’d be out of a job."

  He watched her for a moment, observing how she pulled small bits off the crust of bread and fed them to the ants on the stone. He leaned forward, resting his chin on her shoulder and gently brushing his cheek against hers.

  “Your father still working the loom himself?”

  “He is,” Gretchen said. “Although he’s taken on two apprentices now. One's a cousin from Kehl, the other’s a boy with a lisp – doesn’t make much of a difference since he barely speaks. My father says neither one knows a warp from a weft.”

  “Sounds promising,” Thomas said dryly. “Although to be fair, neither do I.”

  Gretchen leaned her face into his. “Well, if you ever plan to work as an apprentice for my dad, I’ll give you a few tips.”

  “He shouts a lot,” she went on. “But it’s just bluster. He likes pretending no one can do anything right except him.”

  “I know the type.”

  She gave him a mocking glance. “Oh ho? Do you shout at your apprentices too?”

  “I don’t have any,” he said. “I’d sooner treat myself for ulcers than train someone from the surgeon’s guild.”

  She smirked, but didn’t push the point.

  A short pause settled. Thomas reached for the bottle again, then hesitated. “Your mother’s still trying to marry you off?”

  "Yeah, my brother has really raised the bar very high," she said. "Unfortunately, that man was married with a kid by my age."

  Gretchen's brother now lives in Basel. He had got married at 20, and by the age of 23, which happened to be Gretchen's current age, his first son was already two years old. Now, he is 30 and has two young daughters as well.

  “To a baker’s son this time," Gretchen continued. "She thinks if I smell like fresh bread long enough, I’ll forget how dull he is.”

  “Is he dull?” Thomas laughed.

  “Duller than the nearly wilted flowers he brought me! He thought it was an impressive gesture. He talks about rye yields like they’re sacred scripture. I told him I’d rather join a plague cult than listen to him yapping about rye any longer.”

  Thomas nearly choked on his bread. “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  He laughed, full this time. “You do have a talent for unmaking expectations.”

  She softened a little at that, brushing a crumb from her skirt.

  Thomas' tone shifted. “I had a patient this week, a merchant’s wife. She thinks the devil is living in her chest. Her husband says she’s hysterical.”

  Gretchen raised an eyebrow. “And what do you think?”

  “I think there’s mould behind the beams in her attic. But they won’t let me inspect the house. She says it’s a matter for prayers, not medicine.”

  “Some people need their suffering to feel righteous.”

  “Maybe. It still doesn’t help her breathe easier. Also, there's little use in seeing a doctor if you won’t listen to him. She may as well have gone to a clergyman.”

  She nodded, then looked at him a little more carefully. “You’re tired.”

  “I haven’t slept much lately,” he said, with a slight wave of his hand.

  “You never do.”

  He didn’t answer right away. It was true, he lay awake studying longer than he should way too often.

  The garden sounds filled the silence – bees buzzing around the flowers, doves cooing from the roof.

  “I heard about two women this week, from two of my patients”, he said finally. “Unrelated. Different parts of the city. Both apparently could not stop moving their legs.”

  Gretchen blinked. “Moving how?”

  “Like twitching at first. But then, one said it turned into dancing. And not voluntary dancing. She apparently danced until she missed her own name day. She just couldn’t stop herself.”

  Gretchen went still. “I’ve heard similar rumours too. You think it’s something spreading?”

  “I don’t know yet. It could be heatstroke, humours, hysteria, whatever. It’s hard to say without actually seeing it myself.”

  There was a moment of pause.

  “And even if I did,” Thomas added softly, contemplatively. “I don’t know… I’ve never encountered anything like this."

  Then Gretchen tilted her head and gave him a wry smile. “A woman who can’t stop dancing…”

  He looked at her.

  “I know the feeling,” she said.

  Thomas chuckled. It was true, Gretchen loved dancing. To the point that she sometimes just wouldn’t stop. He was not a dancer at all, though.

  The sun had shifted by the time they left the cloisters, slanting lower across the city rooftops. The heat had not broken yet, but the shadows had grown longer, stretching across Rue du Fossé like fingers grasping for relief.

  They strolled side by side, speaking now and then. The crowd thickened near the fountain where washerwomen emptied buckets and children chased each other barefoot. Gretchen tucked her hands into her apron as they passed a tanner's cart. The smell was unbearably strong.

  When they reached the bridge, they paused. The Ill moved sluggishly below, thick and dark, reflecting the orange sky in oily streaks.

  Thomas looked at her. “Same time tomorrow?”

  She nodded. “Behind the church?”

  “Unless I’m called to the bishop’s house again. Last time they made me wait two hours to lance a blister.”

  She smiled. “Then I’ll eat the entire loaf myself.”

  He leaned in, gently. She met him halfway. It was a soft kiss. Another followed. Her fingers found the edge of his coat. His hand brushed the side of her neck and lingered for just a moment.

  When they pulled apart, her face stayed close.

  “Your beard still smells like cloves,” she murmured.

  “And your cheek like yeast and ash,” he said.

  She touched his cheek. “Enjoy treating people for demons again.”

  “No promises.”

  A group of apprentices came laughing down the street, arms slung over one another's shoulders, heading towards the taverns. Gretchen stepped back just enough to let them pass unnoticed.

  She turned, finally. “See you tomorrow.”

  The sun was starting to set. Thomas watched her go, then he turned the other way, towards his quarters.