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She waited for the rising of the moon.
Night in London, the voices growing drowsier in the inns, the slamming of doors, drunken farewells, clocks chiming. Camillia saw a cat like a woman stroll by in her furs, saw a woman like a cat stroll by, both wise, both Egyptian, both smelling of spice. Every quarter hour or so a voice drifted down from above:
“You all right, child?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Camillia?”
“Mother, Jamie, I’m fine.”
And at last. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
The last lights out. London asleep.
The moon rose.
And the higher the moon, the larger grew Camillia’s eyes as she watched the alleys, the courts, the streets, until at last, at midnight, the moon moved over her to show her like a marble figure atop an ancient tomb.
A motion in darkness.
Camillia pricked her ears.
A faint melody sprang out on the air.
A man stood in the shadows of the court.
Camillia gasped.
The man stepped forth into moonlight, carrying a lute which he strummed softly. He was a man well-dressed, whose face was handsome and, now anyway, solemn.
“A troubadour,” said Camillia aloud.
The man, his finger on his lips, moved slowly forward and soon stood by her cot.
“What are you doing out so late?” asked the girl, unafraid but not knowing why.
“A friend sent me to make you well.” He touched the lute strings. They hummed sweetly. He was indeed handsome there in the silver light.
“That cannot be,” she said, “for it was told me, the moon is my cure.”
“And so it will be, maiden.”
“What songs do you sing?”
“Songs of spring nights, aches and ailments without name. Shall I name your fever, maiden?”
“If you know it, yes.”
“First, the symptoms: raging temperatures, sudden cold, heart fast then slow, storms of temper, then sweet calms, drunkenness from having sipped only well water, dizziness from being touched only thus—”
He touched her wrist, saw her melt toward delicious oblivion, drew back.
“Depressions, elations,” he went on. “Dreams—”
“Stop!” she cried, enthralled. “You know me to the letter. Now, name my ailment!”
