commanded the doctor. I jumped at his sharp tone. “But he is so thirsty!” I cried. “Please,” Ptolly said, licking his cracked lips. “Just a little.” The iatros scowled. “I have just given him a tincture of feverfew, and I do not want it diluted before it takes effect.” “Just a little?” I repeated, hating to see Ptolly suffer. The iatros sighed as if greatly put upon. “Fine, but not too much.” I held the honeyed water to my brother’s lips, supporting his head as he closed his eyes. Ptolly had continued to deteriorate, his fever lingering, his strength gone. I tried not to notice how even the act of drinking exhausted him. “That’s enough!” the doctor said. Reluctantly, I pulled the cup away. “More?” Ptolly whispered. The doctor narrowed his eyes at me. But how could I not slake my little brother’s thirst? I could not bear the sight of the dry, sunken hollows of his eyes or the parched, peeling skin around his lips. For the thousandth time, I wished that Olympus, our royal physician in Alexandria, were here to help me.
