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Giana pushed her weight against the weak door. The lock had rusted several months back, but none of the blacksmiths in town were working. So the door gave way without much effort.

Poor Papa lay in bed. He was sweaty, and there was a large purplish lump on his neck about the size of a chicken egg. Giana didn’t understand. She had seen him only hours ago and he’d been fine. Now he looked like he was on Death’s Door. In days, if not hours, he could become one of the bodies she’d witnessed daily taken away by the cart. Giana started to cry.

“Don’t cry for me, daughter. Leave while you can.” Papa could barely croke out the words.

“No. I won’t leave you!” Giana would cure her father. She was determined. She ran to the backyard and grabbed a chicken. She had heard that if you plucked a chicken and rubbed it over the affected parts of the body, you could draw the sickness out. Once she returned to the room she told her Papa, “Hold still!” while she applied the plucked chicken to the site of the purple lump. Papa tried to struggle, but he was too weak to do anything. After Giana was done, Papa closed his eyes.

“It's okay, you can sleep now, Papa.” Giana held her hand to her father’s forehead. He was burning up. Giana knew Papa would not recover in time to catch Lady Francesca’s carriage, so she decided to rest on the floor next to Papa, a bouquet of fragrant flowers pressed against her nose, for protection.. When she awoke, she felt something sore growing underneath her armpit.

QUARANTINE
MIASMA THEORY
GALEN
MEDIEVAL DOCTORS
THE PLAGUE AND POLITICS IN MEDIEVAL EUROPE