July 30th, 1518 (Friday)

  The sun was already high when he received his first patient on that Friday morning. There had been some rain the previous night. The weather was a bit more palatable today as a result.

  There was a sharp, firm knock on the door. Thomas wiped his hands on the towel beside his basin and opened it. Outside stood two young men gripping the edges of a handcart. In the cart lay a woman, middle-aged, her skirts twisted beneath her, hair matted to her temples. Her arms twitched every so often in short, uneven spasms. Her eyes remained shut, though her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.

  Behind them, a man of about fifty, or perhaps older, stepped forward. His linen collar was pressed, his beard neatly trimmed, but his eyes were red-rimmed and searching. He held his hat close to his chest. He introduced himself as Jens Koch.

  “Herr Doctor,” Herr Koch said quietly. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

  Thomas nodded and stepped aside. “Bring her in, gently.”

  Inside, they laid her on the cot beneath the back window. The morning light filtered through the slatted shutters, casting thin gold streaks of light across her face. One of the young men lingered near the door until Thomas signalled him to leave. Herr Koch stayed, his hands clasped behind his back, standing stiffly near the foot of the bed.

  “When did it begin?” Thomas asked, already kneeling beside the woman, fingers pressing against her wrist to find her pulse.

  Herr Koch hesitated. “Two nights ago! She started dancing, and she just wouldn’t stop. Then her hands," he pointed at the intermittent twitch in her hands. "She stopped speaking sometime yesterday.”

  “Any fever?”

  “No. Or… maybe. She was ever so slightly warm last night, but no shivering. No sweating either.”

  Thomas leaned closer and peeled back an eyelid. The woman moaned out something – the beginnings of some half-formed words, but no more – as her eyes darted rapidly beneath the lids. He touched her forehead, checked behind her ears for swelling, then examined her hands. The right foot suddenly flexed, then stilled. A monotonous laugh suddenly escaped her lips. Then her mouth relaxed again.

  “She hasn’t eaten?” Thomas asked.

  Herr Koch shook his head. “Not in a day and a half.”

  “What was the last thing?”

  “Bread, rye bread. And some dried plums.” After a pause, he added, “And water from the pump.”

  Thomas soaked the cloth in the vinegar solution beside him and began dabbing gently at her neck and forehead.

  Herr Koch shifted, then cleared his throat. “Could this be… from the sun? She was in the fields last week. Long days. Not much shade.”

  “Perhaps,” Thomas said. “Though sunstroke behaves differently. The muscles usually relax, not tighten.”

  “She fasted too. Two days, like the friars asked. She’s done that before, but... it's never led to this.”

  Thomas nodded, not committing. He rinsed the cloth again.

  “It began just after the new moon,” Herr Koch went on, quieter now. “I only mention it because… well, the older ones sometimes say the humours shift with the moon. That blood becomes restless.”

  Thomas didn’t look up. He was watching the small muscles of the woman’s jaw – they tensed briefly, then slackened again. “Some believe that, yes.”

  Herr Koch hesitated, his fingers tightening around the rim of his hat. “She said she tasted something wrong… in the bread. Just before it all started. Do you think… could the grain be bad?”

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  “Where did the bread come from?”

  “Hessekorn Mill,” Herr Koch said.

  Thomas didn’t flinch, but he made a very particular mental note. Hessekorn Mill was also where the Vogt family got their bread from.

  His hand paused briefly as he reached for a cloth, but he moved again before the silence could linger.

  Thomas finally looked at him. His voice was calm. “She said this clearly?”

  “She said it tasted wrong. She said it was bitter, not spoiled, just… off. And she stopped eating after that.”

  He folded the damp cloth, stood slowly, and crossed to his desk. He pulled out his notebook. He didn’t write much – just her name, the date, essential details of the case and a line underlined twice: Hessekorn mill.

  He turned back to Herr Koch. “Let’s keep her cool. Try to get her to drink, even if it’s only a little at a time. Steep chamomile if you have it. Something to calm her. I’ll prepare a light tincture. You’ll need to monitor her closely, especially at night.”

  Herr Koch nodded, then looked again at his wife, his face growing tighter.

  “Doctor,” he asked after a pause, “do you think she’ll… come back to herself?”

  Thomas hesitated. He looked at the woman’s face, then at her husband. “Probably,” he said. “Sometimes it can take longer. You brought her early, and that helps.”

  Herr Koch nodded, although there was no relief in his expression.

  As Thomas turned to prepare the tincture, his thoughts again drifted to Gretchen, and the way her hand had flexed the night before, slowly, steadily, as if in time to a rhythm no one else could hear.

  ***

  After the patient and her husband left, Thomas let out a long, slow breath. “Patterns were beginning to emerge,” he thought. “Patterns that could be followed up on.”

  The room was quiet again. The faint scent of the earlier tincture lingered in the chamber. Thomas stood over the empty cot a moment longer, then moved to the basin. The water had cooled. He washed his hands with more care than usual, letting the silence settle around him.

  There was no hurry now. The waiting room was empty. His sleeves were damp when he dried them, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  He crossed the room, pulled out his black notebook, and flipped past the morning’s entry. He stopped at the page marked with Gretchen's name. His pen hovered for a second before he made a neat addition in the left margin:

  Rye from Vogt kitchen – always from Hessekorn.

  He sat back and stared at the note for a long time. There had been nothing obviously wrong with the bread that day in the square. But there had been a dark and sticky smear on her apron. Although he hadn’t actually examined it, it was most likely crushed rye. He thought about how she had recently been complaining increasingly frequently about the grain that they get.

  He could see her face again, flushed and wild, her feet raw and still dancing. He remembered the twitching of her left hand, the recurring small but persistent movement that had affected her from the episode at the square. It was not very dissimilar to the woman from this morning. Or perhaps the merchant’s wife, whose legs jerked in her sleep.

  He was definitely starting to notice patterns, and not only in the muscles of his patients. He wasn't yet sure which patterns were significant and which were incidental. That would certainly require further investigation. However, recognising patterns when they did emerge was essential.

  He turned back to the ledger and wrote slowly:

  Unconfirmed, but recurring.

  Beneath it, in slightly darker ink and slightly smaller handwriting he added:

  Rot in the grain – Possible trigger?

  ***

  The evening light fell softly across the Tanner’s Quarter, highlighting the timbered edges of houses and the aged glass panes of old windows. Thomas set off along the familiar path to Gretchen at a steady pace, the worn leather strap of his satchel pressing against his shoulder and gently bumping against his side with each step.

  He was fairly relaxed today. Yesterday’s visit had gone well enough – Gretchen had seemed lucid, even self-aware. They had spoken quietly for a time, their conversation drifting between gentle humour and tentative seriousness. It was somewhat reminiscent of happier times spent together.

  She was even smiling. It had allowed him, if not full relief, then at least a step back from the constant edge of dread.

  Her parents had also appeared more optimistic. He was certain their cover was blown, but her parents didn't seem too angry, despite Herr Vogt's somewhat deliberately watchful presence.

  Thomas turned onto the narrow lane behind the weavers’ guildhall. The scent of a freshly oiled loom drifted in from an open window somewhere to his left. The Vogt house sat half-shadowed between two larger dwellings, its shuttered windows open in the evening breeze, a curl of smoke drifting from the kitchen side. He knocked lightly.

  The door opened almost at once by Frau Vogt as if she had been waiting for him. She stood there, her expression visibly anxious.

  “Thank God,” she whispered, almost before she saw his face. “It happened again.”

  _________

  Dear reader, thank you for reading The Dance That Never Ends so far. Chapter 13 will be released on Royal Road on Sunday, 8th March, 2026. To further support me and early access to (at least 7) advance chapters, you can subscribe to my Patreon.