Maya's POV
"He's dying."
Old Nan's words cut through the morning air like a knife. I look up from the herb garden I've been studying—trying to identify plants with my twenty-first-century knowledge—and see tears running down her wrinkled face.
"Finn?" I drop the leaves and run inside.
The six-year-old boy who brought me soup yesterday is lying on a straw mat, shaking violently. His skin is the color of old paper. Sweat pours off him even though the room is cold.
But that's not the worst part.
The worst part is his leg.
Three days ago, he cut it on a rusty nail. Now the wound is swollen and black, with red lines spreading up toward his knee like poisonous vines.
Sepsis. Blood infection. In the twenty-first century, it's treatable with antibiotics. In medieval times, it's a death sentence.
"The fever started last night," Nan says, her voice breaking. "I gave him willow bark tea, but it's not working. The infection is too strong."
I kneel beside Finn. His eyes are closed, but he's mumbling something. Delirious.
"Mama... mama, I'm cold..."
His mother died two years ago. Nan is all he has left.
And I'm watching him die from something as stupid as a dirty nail.
"No," I say firmly. "Absolutely not."
"Child, there's nothing—"
"There's everything we can do!" I stand up so fast I knock over a bowl. "Nan, listen to me. This infection? It's caused by tiny invisible creatures called bacteria. We can't see them, but they're killing Finn right now. And I know how to fight them."
Nan stares at me like I've lost my mind. "Invisible creatures?"
"Yes! And we're going to kill them with the three most powerful weapons humanity ever discovered: heat, soap, and clean water." I grab her shoulders. "Do you trust me?"
She looks at her dying grandson. Then back at me.
"What do you need?"
Finally. Someone willing to try something new instead of just accepting death.
"Fire. A big pot. Every clean cloth you have. Animal fat—pig fat is best. Wood ash. And your sharpest knife." I start moving, pulling things from shelves. "Oh, and I need you to do exactly what I say, even if it sounds insane."
"Child, it already sounds insane."
"Good. That means it might actually work."
Ten minutes later, we have a fire roaring and a pot of water boiling. Nan keeps asking why we're wasting firewood heating water, but I ignore her.
While the water boils, I make soap.
Real soap, using chemistry that won't be invented for centuries. I mix animal fat with wood ash—which contains lye—in precise amounts Maya Chen memorized in college. The mixture smells awful, but after stirring and heating, it becomes crude soap.
"What is that?" Nan wrinkles her nose.
"Medicine," I say. "The most important medicine in human history, and your people don't even know it exists yet."
Next comes the hard part.
I scrub my hands with the soap until they're raw. Then I take the boiled water—cooled just enough not to burn—and start cleaning Finn's infected wound.
He screams when I touch it. The sound breaks my heart, but I can't stop. I have to remove all the dead, infected tissue. Have to flush out the bacteria before they reach his bloodstream completely.
"Hold him still," I tell Nan.
She does, tears streaming, while I work. I use the boiled knife to cut away the blackest parts of the infection—medieval surgery with twenty-first-century hygiene. Every instrument boiled. Every surface cleaned. My hands washed over and over.
Finn passes out from the pain. Maybe that's better.
After cleaning the wound, I pack it with herbs. Not random herbs—specific ones. Garlic, which contains allicin, a natural antibiotic. Honey, which is antibacterial and prevents infection. Yarrow to stop bleeding.
Then I wrap everything in boiled cloth and tie it tight.
"Now we wait," I say, exhausted.
"That's it?" Nan looks disappointed. "No prayers? No magic words?"
"Science doesn't need magic words. It just needs to work." I check Finn's forehead. Still burning hot. "Keep him drinking boiled water. Change the bandage every six hours with clean cloth—boiled cloth. And for gods' sake, wash your hands before touching him."
"You really think invisible creatures cause sickness?"
"I know they do. And in about eight hundred years, someone named Louis Pasteur is going to prove it and save millions of lives." I catch myself too late. "I mean... I believe ancient scholars knew this truth."
Nan gives me the strangest look but doesn't argue.
We take turns watching Finn through the night. His fever rages. Twice, he stops breathing and I have to pound on his chest—CPR that won't be invented for centuries—until he gasps and starts again.
Each time, I think: this is it. I failed. He's going to die and it's my fault for thinking I could play doctor.
But as dawn breaks, something miraculous happens.
Finn's fever breaks.
His skin cools. His breathing steadies. When I unwrap the bandage, the wound is still ugly, but the black is fading. The red lines are shrinking back.
The infection is losing.
"Blessed saints," Nan whispers. "You did it. You actually did it."
I slump against the wall, shaking with relief. "We did it. Science did it."
Finn opens his eyes—clear eyes, not delirious—and looks right at me.
"The Miracle Lady," he says softly. "You saved me."
"No miracles," I say, ruffling his hair. "Just soap and boiled water and stubbornness."
But the name sticks. By afternoon, three people have come to Nan's door asking about the woman who brought a dying boy back to life. By evening, there are a dozen people waiting outside, desperate and hopeful.
"My daughter has fever—"
"My husband's wound won't heal—"
"Please, Miracle Lady, my baby is sick—"
I look at all their faces. Poor people. Desperate people. People dying from things that would be fixed with a simple antibiotic prescription in my time.
I can't save them all. I'm not a doctor. I'm just an engineer who remembers some basic biology.
But I can try.
"Everyone with infections, line up here," I announce. "I'll show you how to clean wounds properly. Everyone else, I'll teach you how to make soap and boil water. These two things will save more lives than any prayer or potion."
Nan pulls me aside. "Child, are you sure? These people... they'll never leave you alone once word spreads."
"Good," I say firmly. "Let them come. Let everyone come. I'm going to teach this entire kingdom how to stop dying from stupid, preventable diseases."
"The nobles won't like it. Common people aren't supposed to have this kind of knowledge."
"Then the nobles can—" I stop myself from saying something very inappropriate. "The nobles can learn to accept it. Because I'm not watching any more children die from infected cuts."
That night, after treating a dozen patients and teaching basic hygiene to twenty more, I finally collapse in exhaustion.
But I can't sleep.
Because through the window, I see something that makes my blood run cold.
A figure in dark armor standing in the shadows across the street.
Watching Nan's house.
Watching me.
I know that armor. Saw it three days ago when Prince Kael found me in the alley.
Royal guards.
They've been watching me all day. Watching me perform "miracles." Watching me teach things that sound like witchcraft to medieval ears.
And as the guard turns to leave—probably to report back to the palace—I see something that makes my heart stop.
He's carrying a small leather bag. The kind apothecaries use for poisons.
The same bag Elara's memories show her seeing in Seraphina's chambers the night before the banquet.
Oh no.
They're not just watching me.
They're planning to poison someone and blame me again.
And this time, with all these people I just treated, if someone dies mysteriously, everyone will believe the Miracle Lady is actually a witch.
I'm walking straight into the same trap that killed Elara.
And I have no idea how to stop it.