Thomas set off for the Vogts' home not long after sunrise, before the streets had truly woken. The warmth of the day had not yet arrived. His boots echoed softly on the cobbled path through Fischmarkt.

  He told himself he was simply checking in, making sure she was stable and that nothing had worsened. Additionally, he needed to return her mum's lantern. But beneath that excuse was something more vulnerable. He needed to see her. He needed to know she was alright.

  Perhaps it was a one-off incident, he thought on his way. Perhaps she just needed to get it out of her system, and now it was done! It won't happen again. That was certainly a possibility. What bugged him... scared him rather... was that he had no idea what the diagnosis was or what the cure might be. This was an affliction he had never been trained to handle, or one that he had encountered before yesterday.

  As a doctor, he wanted to believe he was a valuable resource for the people closest to him. But now, he felt pangs of helplessness.

  As he approached the Vogt residence, he noticed faint smoke drifting upwards from the kitchen chimney. A bucket of water was placed just outside the door, and through the cracks of the shutters, the dim yellow glow of the hearth flickered. From the outside, everything appeared calm in the early morning sun.

  He knocked gently. It was the same rhythm as the evening before.

  This time, Frau Vogt opened the door. Her eyes appeared red, as though she’d been awake most of the night. Her apron was tied unevenly, and her hair had been hastily wrapped in a scarf. She didn’t greet him with words, only stepped aside to let him in.

  The interior of the house felt warmer than he remembered. A small pot of barley simmered over the hearth.

  Frau Vogt closed the door behind him with a quiet click and turned, folding her hands into her apron. She looked smaller in the morning light, as if the night had worn her down from the inside. Herr Vogt stood near the hearth with arms crossed, jaw set like he’d been bracing himself for a storm that hadn’t yet broken.

  “She’s in her room,” Frau Vogt said. “We told her you were coming.”

  Thomas hesitated before stepping further inside. He stepped past the wooden dining table, where a half-eaten heel of bread and a strip of linen lay folded beside a bowl of old broth. A crucifix hung above the table, slightly askew. Someone had placed a sprig of fresh rosemary beneath it.

  “Did anything else happen?” he asked. “During the night, I mean…”

  Frau Vogt nodded, her gaze flicking briefly towards her husband, who said nothing.

  “She woke around midnight,” she began, voice low and careful, as though afraid to speak too loud. “I heard the floor creak and got up. She was already in the hall… moving.”

  “Moving how?”

  “Like she was dancing. Turning, stepping, light on her feet. She was even laughing under her breath, sometimes.” She swallowed. “But her eyes were open wide, abnormally wide. She didn’t look at me when I called her name.”

  Herr Vogt let out a tight breath through his nose. “It went on for two hours. Back and forth, from one wall to another. Like she was chasing something or following something or some damn devil.”

  “And then she stopped?” Thomas asked.

  Frau Vogt nodded again. “She fell, she dropped hard. Hit her shoulder against the table there. But she didn’t cry out. She just mumbled something. Something… kind of strange.”

  “What did she say?”

  “‘There’s music in the stones,’” she noted after a bit of hesitation. “Then she passed out.”

  Thomas said nothing for a moment. The words sat heavy in the air.

  Herr Vogt finally spoke, his voice rough and short. “I don’t want a priest sniffing around in here. No rumours.”

  He hit upon a valid point, Thomas noted. With this mysterious dancing… illness… condition… whatever you want to call it… going around, something the medical community could not explain, it was only a matter of time before the church and the clergy got involved – seriously involved!

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  “No priest,” Thomas agreed. “I’m not here to bring anyone else.”

  The older man gave a stiff nod and then stared in the direction of Gretchen’s room. Thomas turned back to Frau Vogt, whose eyes were glistening now, though she held back any tears.

  “She came to not long after,” she said, almost whispering. “She didn’t remember what happened. But she kind of remembered how it… felt. She said she was drawn. Pulled. But she’s calmer now.”

  Thomas laid a hand on the doorframe. “Thank you,” he said softly.

  As he stepped into Gretchen’s room, he heard Frau Vogt start mumbling prayers in Low German.

  ***

  In the small back room, the light was soft and pale. The shutters had been pulled open just a little, letting in a triangle of sunlight that touched the foot of the cot. Dust danced visibly in the beam of light.

  Gretchen lay curled under the blanket, one arm resting loosely across her chest. Thomas noticed that her blonde hair was unbraided, spread over the pillow in damp, tangled waves. Her cheeks were flushed but not with fever, it was more subtle than that. Her eyelids fluttered, then lifted.

  When she saw him, she smiled. It was a small, weary smile, but a genuine one nonetheless.

  “You came back,” she whispered.

  “Of course I did.” Thomas nodded and crossed to her side and crouched beside the cot. Her feet, bandaged with cloth and poultice, peeked out from beneath the blanket. The skin around her ankles still looked somewhat raw, scraped where it had rubbed against her shoes, now discarded in a corner. Her lips were dry but pink.

  “You’re not running around this morning,” he said gently. “That’s a good thing.”

  “I still feel like it.” She tried to sit up but winced and sank back. “Not really. But also... yes. Like my legs and arms remember something, want something... but I'm too... tired to get it”

  Her voice had more strength than it did yesterday, although her breathing was shallow and her hands fidgeted against the blanket. Thomas took her wrist and checked her pulse. It was fast, but not frantic. Her skin was warm, and her breathing steady. He brushed her forehead with the back of his fingers. She did not have a fever.

  “Your mother said you had a... spell. Last night!”

  Gretchen turned her face slightly toward the faint light coming from the window and chuckled. “Yes, I am a witch who casts spells.” Thomas chuckled too, but his face quickly grew serious again, prompting Gretchen to be more serious as well.

  “I don’t remember all of it,” she said. “But I woke up, I think. Or maybe I never truly fell asleep. I felt the urge to move, so I did.”

  “Just like that?”

  “I was in the hall,” she murmured. “I started turning. Just turning and turning. Laughing, maybe. I could hear something. Not music exactly... but something like it. I thought it came from the stones.”

  Thomas felt a slight shiver run down his spine. He glanced up. A small crucifix hung just above him. Its edges were worn with age. Beneath it, the wooden walls showed faint traces of an old water stain.

  “I wanted to dance again,” she continued, eyes still unfocused. “But I didn’t want to get up. I still don’t, if I’m honest. I just feel... full of something. My body wants one thing, but the rest of me... it’s tired.”

  He let her words hang there a moment.

  “Your mother said it lasted nearly two hours,” he said.

  “She watched the whole time?”

  “She and your father. Though he seems more angry than scared, I don’t know.”

  At this, Gretchen exhaled sharply. “He doesn’t like things he can’t fix. He thinks a hammer or a knife can solve most problems.”

  Thomas smiled faintly and took her hand gently in his. Her fingers were cold at the tips. He examined her again – eyelids responsive, tongue slightly coated, heartbeat still fast but not irregular. When she moved, her toes twitched beneath the bandages.

  “You need rest,” he said. “And water. And your feet need time to heal. I can bring better balm tomorrow.”

  She nodded, then frowned. “Yesterday... you saw me in the square…”

  “I did. Around late evening. The same time we usually meet. But you were... dancing in the square.”

  “I went for a brotchen, around late afternoon,” she said, almost to herself. “That’s all. I saw six, maybe seven, people dancing when I got there. Some had their shoes off. Then the fiddler started. That’s when it happened.”

  Thomas looked puzzled. “When I reached the square, I only counted four.”

  “Some were pulled away,” she said, eyes drifting closed again. “Parents. Friends. A man shouting about sin. Someone dropped a basket. I’m not all that sure.”

  There was a long pause. “It all felt… far away,” she said.

  “And where was this fiddler?” asked Thomas.

  Gretchen hesitated for a long moment before answering. “I really don’t know. I didn’t see him, I just heard him. And the sound,” she paused for a long moment again, like she was considering whether to actually say the next part out loud. “It didn’t feel like it was coming from any one direction. It felt like it was everywhere – around me, above me, even in me.”

  As Thomas was contemplating her account of the fiddler, a floorboard creaked behind them. Herr Vogt was pacing the outer room again, his footfalls heavy and slow. A spoon clinked in a bowl. Outside, the morning sounds of carts and street calls had begun to creep into the quarter.

  “I’ll return tomorrow,” Thomas said softly, rising. “I’ve got to get to my practice now.”

  She nodded faintly, her eyes already drifting shut again.

  As he rose, he touched the edge of her blanket. It was a small, quiet gesture. He then turned towards the door. As he left her room, he noticed Herr Vogt sitting on a chair, hands on his chin. Frau Vogt was still muttering her prayers. She stopped when he came out and looked up at him.