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around. He did this circuit three times every morning and three times every evening. At first he had only been able to manage one; soon he would increase it to four. His foot was burning particularly hot today. A searing pain shot up his right leg when he stepped on a sharp stone. But giving up was out of the question. Tears of pain and desperation ran down his cheeks, but he ignored them. He paused briefly to catch his breath after his second circuit.
    Running felt much harder than usual today. He had hardly slept and found himself short of breath. Had he caught a chill? His head felt as if it were stuffed with down, and his nose itched. Just one more circuit, he urged himself, and finally fulfilled his expectation.
    When he got home, he dropped onto the bench, exhausted, and laid his head on the table. “I feel like death,” he groaned.
    Rose put the promised cup of warm goat milk down in front of him, as well as some porridge, and looked at him tenderly. “Eat up quickly. You’re late. The others are over there already,” she warned him, stroking his sweaty head affectionately.
    When William entered the smithy, he could tell immediately that his mother was furious. He got down to work in silence, careful to avoid her stern gaze.
    The workshop seemed stuffier than usual as William caught shallow breaths through his mouth. His nose was now completely blocked, and his head ached terribly. After only a few blows with the hammer, his strength failed him. His neck, the small of his back, his legs, and his arms—everything hurt. Although he was standing some distance away from the fire, it felt like he was standing in the center of the flames. Suddenly, the room began to spin, and then everything went black.
    “William!” Someone was slapping his cheek roughly. “Wake up, lad,” Isaac said anxiously.
    William tried to get up, but he was too weak to stand.
    “I’ll carry him,” said Jean, Rose’s husband, picking him up off the ground.
    “I’m sure he’s been at that running nonsense again. I don’t understand what purpose it’s supposed to serve.”
    She cares about me, thought William, amazed. A tiny smile flickered on his pale lips. “It’s all right, Mother. I’ll be better soon,” he whispered.
    When they entered the house, Rose hurried over, leaving the dough she had been kneading untended.
    “Has he hurt himself?” Although Rose was used to problems with the smiths, since it was always she who came when they needed help, she sounded worried. William knew she loved him as she loved her own children. She meant almost as much to him, too, as his mother did.
    “Fainted,” Jean explained, without wasting words.
    “For heaven’s sake.” Rose laid her hand against William’s overheated forehead. “He needs to go to bed and get some rest. The poor boy has a fever. I’ll make him an infusion and cool some bedclothes. That’s bound to help.” She turned to reassure Ellenweore. “Don’t worry yourself—I’ll look after him. He’ll be fine in a couple of days.”
    “This running is going to be the death of him!” muttered Ellenweore grimly.
    Once in bed, William sank into a deep sleep. Sweating and groaning, he dreamed of marsh monsters trying to devour him and of a dragon pursuing him with its fiery breath.
    When he woke up, Rose was sitting by the bed, cooling his forehead. William felt something wet on his calves. Rose had wrapped damp cloths around them. Although they absorbed the heat of his burning body, they did not reduce the fever. He felt weak, and he looked at Rose dully. Even his eyes hurt.
    “Have a drink,” she ordered him, holding a cup to his lips. She lifted his head slightly and supported it.
    “Thanks,” William whispered feebly. He soon slipped back into a feverish sleep.
    When he awoke again, it was already dark. William listened. His stepsisters, Agnes and Marie, who were also his cousins, were lying not far away. They slept together in a shared bed. One of them made a