The fever had taken hold of Thomas three days ago, and Elisabeth knew with the certainty that comes from watching too many neighbors buried that her little brother was dying.

She knelt beside his small form on the rough-hewn bed, pressing a damp cloth to his burning forehead. At eight years old, Thomas had always been the light of their settlement—quick with a laugh, quicker with a jest that could make even stern Deacon Whitmore crack a smile during Sunday service. Now his breath came in shallow gasps, and the bright blue eyes that usually sparkled with mischief remained closed.

“The spotted fever,” their mother had whispered to Father yesterday, thinking Elisabeth couldn’t hear. “Same as took the Morrison children last spring.”

Elisabeth had seen the spotted fever before. Red welts across the skin, burning fever that wouldn’t break, and always—always—death within a week. The settlement had no physician, only Goodwife Turner who knew herbs and prayers in equal measure. But Goodwife Turner had already shaken her head gravely and spoken of God’s will.

Elisabeth refused to accept God’s will. Not when it came to Thomas.

She smoothed his damp hair and made her decision. Twenty-six miles northeast, past the treacherous Mashpee territory and through the dark woods that even the bravest men avoided after sunset, lived a woman the traders whispered about. Aiyana, daughter of a Wampanoag medicine man and a runaway English servant. They said she could cure what others could not, that she knew secrets lost to both worlds.

They also said she demanded a terrible price.

Elisabeth didn’t care about the price. She slipped from the cabin as dawn broke gray and cold over the settlement, leaving behind a hastily scrawled note for her parents. By the time they discovered her gone, she would be hours ahead on Dancer, her father’s fastest mare.

The first miles passed without incident. Dancer’s hooves drummed steadily against the packed earth of the trading path, and Elisabeth allowed herself a moment of hope. She was an excellent rider—had been racing the boys since she could sit a saddle—and she knew these woods better than most. She could make the journey in a day if she pushed hard.

The trading path ended at Miller’s Creek, where the relatively safe territory of English settlements gave way to wilderness. Elisabeth paused to water Dancer and check the small pack she’d tied behind her saddle: dried corn, a little salt pork, her father’s best knife, and her mother’s silver thimble—the most valuable thing they owned, her offering to the healer.

Beyond the creek, the forest closed in like a living thing. Ancient oaks and towering pines blocked most of the sunlight, creating a cathedral of shadows that seemed to whisper warnings. Elisabeth had never traveled this far alone, but she pressed on, following the faint animal tracks that the traders claimed would lead to Aiyana’s dwelling.

The first attack came at midday.

Elisabeth heard the war cry a heartbeat before the painted warrior emerged from behind a massive oak, tomahawk raised. Dancer reared in terror, and Elisabeth fought to keep her seat as two more warriors materialized from the undergrowth. These weren’t the peaceful Wampanoag who sometimes traded at the settlement—their paint and bearing marked them as something more dangerous.

“Please!” Elisabeth called out in the few words of Algonquian she knew. “I seek Aiyana! The healer!”

The lead warrior paused, his weathered face showing surprise at her use of his language. He barked something to his companions, and they began to circle Dancer, making the mare dance nervously.

Elisabeth’s hand moved instinctively to her father’s knife, but she forced herself to remain still. Three against one, in their territory—fighting would only ensure her death and Thomas’s along with it.

“Aiyana,” she repeated desperately. “I carry silver. For the healer.”

The warrior studied her for a long moment, then spoke rapidly to the others. Finally, he pointed deeper into the forest and said something that sounded like directions. When Elisabeth hesitated, he made an impatient gesture and melted back into the trees with his companions.

Her heart hammering, Elisabeth urged Dancer forward. Whether the warriors had helped or merely delayed her death, she couldn’t tell. But Thomas didn’t have time for her to find another way.

The afternoon brought new challenges. A steep ravine forced her to dismount and lead Dancer down a treacherous slope, costing precious time. A fallen tree blocked the path, requiring a lengthy detour through brambles that tore at her skirts and left bloody scratches on her arms. Worst of all, storm clouds were gathering, and the first fat raindrops began to fall as evening approached.

Elisabeth had hoped to reach Aiyana’s dwelling before dark, but the forest had other plans. Lightning split the sky, followed by thunder that made Dancer shy and stumble. Rain turned the forest floor to slippery mud, and Elisabeth could barely make out the trail in the growing darkness.

Then she smelled smoke.

Following the scent through the driving rain, Elisabeth emerged into a small clearing where a cabin sat beside a stream. Light flickered in the windows, and smoke rose from the chimney despite the storm. This had to be the place.

She dismounted and approached the door on shaking legs, aware that she was muddy, bloody, and looked more like a wild thing than a proper English girl. Before she could knock, the door opened.

The woman who stood there was perhaps thirty years old, with the high cheekbones and dark eyes of her Wampanoag heritage softened by features that spoke of English blood. She wore a simple brown dress, but Elisabeth could see bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters behind her and smell the complex mixture of medicinal plants that marked a true healer.

“Aiyana?” Elisabeth whispered.

The woman nodded. “You are far from your people, English girl. And in great need, I think.”

Elisabeth pulled the silver thimble from her pack with trembling fingers. “My brother. He has the spotted fever. Please—I’ll give you anything.”

Aiyana examined the thimble, then looked searchingly at Elisabeth’s face. “Anything is a dangerous word. Come inside before you catch your death.”

The cabin was warm and dry, filled with the comforting scents of herbs and woodsmoke. Aiyana gestured for Elisabeth to sit by the fire while she prepared tea from leaves Elisabeth didn’t recognize.

“Tell me of your brother,” the healer said as she worked.

Elisabeth found herself pouring out everything—Thomas’s laughter, his gentle way with injured animals, how he would sneak her extra cornbread when their parents weren’t looking. How the fever had taken hold so quickly, how little time remained.

Aiyana listened without interruption, occasionally nodding. When Elisabeth finished, the older woman was quiet for a long moment.

“I can make a medicine that will cure the spotted fever,” she said finally. “But the price is not silver.”

Elisabeth’s heart leaped, then clenched with fear. “What do you want?”

“Seven years of your life.”

The words hit Elisabeth like a physical blow. “Seven years?”

“The spotted fever is a powerful sickness. To cure it requires a powerful sacrifice. Seven years of your life will flow into the medicine. You will age those years in an instant—from sixteen to twenty-three. You will miss your youth, your time of courtship and marriage. By the time you return to your people, you will be an old maid by their standards.”

Elisabeth stared into the fire, her mind reeling. Seven years. She would miss seeing Thomas grow up, miss the possibility of her own family, miss everything she had dreamed her life might be.

But Thomas would live.

“Will it work?” she asked quietly.

“If you reach him in time. The medicine must be given before the fever reaches his heart.”

Elisabeth thought of Thomas’s laugh, of his small hand in hers as she taught him to read, of the way his eyes lit up when she told him stories. She thought of her parents’ grief if they lost him, of the empty silence that would fill their cabin.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

Aiyana studied her face one more time, as if giving her a chance to reconsider. Then she nodded and rose to gather ingredients from her stores.

The process took an hour. Elisabeth watched as the healer combined roots and leaves, bark and berries, murmuring words in languages both familiar and strange. The mixture simmered over the fire, filling the cabin with an acrid smell that made Elisabeth’s eyes water.

When it was finished, Aiyana poured the dark liquid into a small vial and handed it to Elisabeth. “When you give this to your brother, the price will be paid. Are you certain?”

Elisabeth clutched the vial to her chest. “I’m certain.”

“Then go quickly. You have perhaps six hours before dawn, and you will need every one.”

Elisabeth tucked the precious vial into her bodice and prepared to leave. At the door, Aiyana caught her arm.

“Child,” she said softly, “what you do for love is never truly lost.”

The journey home was a nightmare of mud and darkness, but Elisabeth drove herself and Dancer mercilessly through the night. The storm passed, leaving a world washed clean under stars that seemed to burn with unusual brightness. She met no warriors on the return journey—perhaps word had spread that she was under Aiyana’s protection.

Dawn was breaking gray over the settlement when Elisabeth finally reached home. She burst through the cabin door to find her parents kneeling beside Thomas’s bed, her mother weeping softly.

“Thank God,” her father breathed when he saw her. “Elisabeth, where—”

“I have medicine,” she interrupted, pulling out the vial with shaking hands. “It will cure him.”

Her parents stared in shock as she knelt beside Thomas and lifted his head. The little boy’s breathing was so shallow she could barely detect it, and his skin burned with fever.

“Thomas,” she whispered, “you have to drink this.”

She pressed the vial to his lips and tilted it carefully, watching as the dark liquid trickled into his mouth. For a moment nothing happened. Then Thomas swallowed reflexively, and Elisabeth felt the strangest sensation—as if something vital was flowing out of her and into her brother.

The change began immediately. Elisabeth felt her body shifting, growing, aging. Her clothes became tight across a suddenly fuller figure. Her hands, still holding Thomas, looked different—more lined, more worn. Seven years compressed into seconds, and she gasped at the intensity of it.

But Thomas’s breathing deepened. The terrible heat began to fade from his skin. As Elisabeth watched in wonder, his eyes fluttered open and focused on her face.

“Elisabeth?” he whispered, his voice weak but clear. “You look different.”

She laughed through tears she hadn’t realized she was crying. “I’m just tired, little brother. But I’m here.”

Their parents stared in amazement as Thomas sat up slowly, the fever clearly broken. Their mother began to sob with relief, while their father looked between Elisabeth and Thomas with questions in his eyes that she would answer later.

For now, it was enough to hold Thomas close and know that she had chosen correctly. Seven years was a high price, but watching him smile at her with eyes bright with life again, Elisabeth knew she would pay it a thousand times over.

Outside, the sun rose fully over the settlement, painting the world in shades of gold and promise. Elisabeth was no longer sixteen, would never be sixteen again. But Thomas would grow up, would laugh and love and live the life she had purchased for him.

Some sacrifices, she realized, were not losses at all—they were the truest form of love.