The first case of field fever appeared in Thornfield vilge three days before midwinter. The miller's apprentice, a boy of fifteen who had taken on his master's duties when the older man was conscripted, colpsed during his morning work. By nightfall, he was burning with fever, his breathing bored, his young face ashen.

  Rosalind learned of it the following morning from Mira, who arrived at her cottage just after dawn, her cloak dusted with fresh snow.

  "It's here," Mira said without preamble. "The wasting sickness. Young Peter at the mill has all the signs—fever, dry cough, the blue tinges around his lips."

  Rosalind's stomach tightened with dread. They had been hearing reports from the eastern provinces for weeks, whispers of entire vilges bedridden, of overflowing field hospitals, of the dead being buried in mass graves to prevent further contagion.

  "Have you seen him?" she asked, immediately gathering her warmest cloak.

  Mira nodded. "My mother's with him now. We've given him willow bark tea for the fever and mullein for the cough, but..." She trailed off, her expression grim.

  The unspoken truth hung between them. The traditional remedies had proven rgely ineffective against this particur illness. In communities where the sickness had already taken hold, mortality rates were staggering, particurly among the very young and the elderly.

  "We need to organize," Rosalind said decisively. "Isote the known cases, prepare supplies, establish protocols for caring for the sick without spreading the contagion further."

  "The vilge elders are gathering at the church this morning," Mira replied. "They've sent for you specifically."

  The request surprised Rosalind. Six months ago, she had been the duke's disgraced daughter, sent to Thornfield as punishment. Now, in a time of crisis, the community looked to her for leadership.

  "I'll come immediately," she said, gathering her notebooks. "First, we need to understand the extent of what we're facing."

  The vilge church was crowded despite the bitter cold outside, its stone walls providing little protection against the winter chill. Rosalind recognized faces from across the region—not just the vilge elders, but representatives from outlying farms and neighboring communities. Their expressions ranged from worried to outright fearful.

  The vicar, a practical middle-aged man who had been leading discussions on improved grain storage at the agricultural school, acknowledged Rosalind with a solemn nod as she entered.

  "Miss Rose," he said, using the name she had come to prefer over her noble title. "Thank you for coming. We find ourselves facing a formidable challenge."

  "How many cases so far?" she asked, getting directly to the practical matter at hand.

  "Three confirmed," replied Martha, the head dairywoman who had become one of Rosalind's closest allies in the community. "Young Peter at the mill, Old Willem's granddaughter, and one of the Preston children from the western valley."

  "All connected to the mill in some way," added Garrett, the vilge bcksmith. "They all received flour from the same grinding two days ago."

  Rosalind considered this. "The military supply trains pass through Millerton on their way east," she said, referring to the rger town where some of their grain was processed. "If soldiers were carrying the sickness..."

  "It could have contaminated the flour supplies," Mira's mother, the local herbalist, finished the thought. "We've seen illness travel this way before, though usually not so virulent."

  The gravity of the situation settled over the gathering. If the fever was indeed spreading through their food supply, they faced a crisis far more complex than simply isoting the sick.

  "What do we know about treatment?" Rosalind asked.

  The answers were not encouraging. Traditional remedies showed limited effectiveness. Rest, hydration, and fever management seemed to help some patients, but many deteriorated despite the best care. The most troubling aspect was how quickly the illness progressed from first symptoms to critical condition—sometimes in as little as two days.

  "What about the medical knowledge from the capital?" someone asked. "Surely the duke's daughter would have access to the imperial physicians' advice?"

  All eyes turned to Rosalind. The question highlighted the dual nature of her position in the community—she was both "Miss Rose" who worked alongside them in the fields and dairy, and Lady Rosalind Harrington, whose noble connections might provide resources beyond their reach.

  "I'll write to my father immediately," she promised. "But we should not wait for outside help that may never arrive. The imperial physicians are likely overwhelmed with cases closer to the capital, and the war has stretched medical resources thin everywhere."

  She turned to Mira's mother. "We need to gather all the medicinal herbs we have—willow bark, elderberry, anything with fever-reducing or strengthening properties. Ration them carefully."

  Next, she addressed the vilge elders. "We must establish a isotion protocol. Those showing symptoms should be cared for in separate buildings where possible, with only designated caregivers in contact with them."

  To Martha and the other dairy workers, she said, "We need to ensure the food and milk supplies are not contaminated. Boil everything thoroughly before consumption."

  For the next hour, they developed a comprehensive pn: designated recovery spaces, rotating teams of caregivers, systems for distributing food and necessities without unnecessary contact, and careful monitoring for new cases.

  As the meeting concluded, the vicar asked the question that had been hovering unspoken in the air: "Should we send the children away? Those who have family in the south, perhaps?"

  Rosalind considered this carefully. The instinct to protect the most vulnerable was natural, but the practical implications were troubling.

  "Travel itself poses risks of exposure," she pointed out. "And we don't know if southern regions will remain untouched for long. Furthermore, children might carry the sickness with them, spreading it to new areas."

  She looked around the room, meeting each worried gaze with steady resolve. "I believe our best chance is to face this together, implementing the strictest safeguards we can manage. Divided, we are more vulnerable."

  As the gathering dispersed, Rosalind felt the weight of responsibility settle more heavily on her shoulders. These people were looking to her not just for guidance but for hope—a commodity increasingly scarce as winter deepened and the war continued to drain their resources.

  That evening, Rosalind wrote three letters by mplight in her cottage. The first was to her father:

  Thornfield Cottage Third Day of Winter Moon

  Father,

  I write to inform you of a concerning development in the northern provinces. The illness known officially as field fever and colloquially as the wasting sickness has reached Thornfield vilge. We currently have three confirmed cases, all showing the characteristic symptoms of high fever, respiratory distress, and rapid deterioration.

  Our local healers are doing what they can with traditional remedies, but to little effect. If the imperial physicians have developed any effective treatments or preventative measures, such information would be invaluable to our community.

  Furthermore, our medical supplies are limited and dwindling. Any assistance you could provide in this regard—particurly febrifuges, strengthening tonics, and clean bandaging materials—would help us manage the outbreak.

  I must also report that our food reserves, while adequate for normal winter consumption, are being strained by increased military requisitions. The combination of reduced bor due to conscription, early frost damage to te crops, and now illness among our workers creates a precarious situation that could quickly become dire.

  I understand from your previous communication that you wish me to return to the Imperial City should conditions here worsen. I must respectfully decline this option. My responsibilities to this community, particurly in this time of crisis, require my continued presence at Thornfield.

  Please convey my regards to Mother. I hope you both remain in good health as this illness spreads.

  Your daughter, Rosalind

  The second letter was to Thomas, a more difficult composition. She wanted to be honest without causing him undue worry during his recovery:

  Thornfield Cottage Third Day of Winter Moon

  My dearest Thomas,

  Your most recent letter bringing news of your continued recovery has brightened these short winter days immeasurably. I am particurly encouraged to hear that you can now stand with assistance and that the surgeons are pleased with how your arm is healing. Each small improvement brings you one step closer to home, and for that I am profoundly grateful.

  The agricultural school continues to flourish, even as winter limits our practical demonstrations. We have moved our sessions into the great hall of Thornfield House, where your father recently led a fascinating discussion on seed selection and storage. Your mother has been teaching a well-attended workshop on preserving vegetables using minimal salt—a valuable skill in these times of rationing.

  I must be honest about new challenges we face. The illness that has been spreading from the east has reached our vilge. We have established careful protocols to limit its spread and are implementing all the knowledge our local healers possess. I tell you this not to cause you distress, but because I promised never to shield you from the truth of what happens here.

  Please know that I am taking every precaution for my own health, as I intend to be standing strong when you return to Thornfield. The pendant you carved for me remains my constant companion, a tangible reminder of the future we will build together when these difficult days have passed.

  Rest and heal, my love. Let the physicians do their work without resistance—I know how your independent nature chafes against dependency, but your complete recovery is what matters most.

  With all my heart, Rosalind

  The third letter was to Lord Pembrooke, the young nobleman who managed her father's eastern estates. Though they had never met, Rosalind knew from estate records that he had implemented several innovative approaches to crop management that had proven successful in difficult conditions:

  Thornfield Estate Third Day of Winter Moon

  Lord Pembrooke,

  I write to you not as the Duke's daughter but as the current administrator of Thornfield Estate, facing challenges that I believe you have already encountered in the eastern provinces.

  Field fever has reached our community, coinciding with food shortages exacerbated by the war effort. From estate records, I understand that you successfully managed a simir dual crisis st winter through implementation of novel resource allocation strategies and preventative health measures.

  Any guidance you could provide regarding effective approaches would be greatly appreciated. Specifically, I am interested in how you banced military requisitions against civilian needs, what treatments proved most effective against the fever, and how you maintained agricultural productivity with a diminished and illness-stricken workforce.

  I recognize that communication is difficult in these troubled times, but I hope this letter finds its way to you and that you might spare time for a response.

  Respectfully, Rosalind Harrington Acting Administrator, Thornfield Estate

  After sealing the letters, Rosalind reviewed her notes from the vilge meeting. The situation demanded immediate action on multiple fronts: establishing the isotion areas, organizing care rotations, securing and distributing medical supplies, ensuring food safety, and maintaining essential estate operations despite the growing threat of illness.

  Sleep would be a luxury in the days ahead.

  Within a week, the number of fever cases had risen to seventeen. The old weaving shed at the edge of the vilge had been converted into a recovery space, with beds spaced widely apart and windows kept open despite the winter cold, following Mira's mother's belief that fresh air helped prevent the sickness from concentrating.

  Rosalind established her headquarters in a small anteroom of the estate office, coordinating the increasingly complex response to the dual crises of illness and resource scarcity. Maps spread across the tables showed the distribution of cases, the status of food stores, and the rotation schedules for care workers.

  Mr. Finch, who had gradually shifted from skeptical overseer to respectful colleague during Rosalind's time at Thornfield, entered with the morning reports.

  "Three new cases overnight," he said grimly. "All in the eastern hamlet. And we've lost Old Willem's granddaughter."

  Rosalind closed her eyes briefly, absorbing the news. Emma had been only seven, a bright-eyed child who had delighted in helping with the mbing st spring. She was the first death in their community from the fever, but Rosalind feared she would not be the st.

  "Has the family been provided for?" she asked.

  "Yes, Miss Rose. Food delivered to their door, and the vicar is with them now."

  Rosalind made a note in her ledger, then turned to the next pressing matter. "What's the status of the eastern grain store?"

  "Two-thirds depleted," Mr. Finch reported. "The military requisition yesterday took more than we anticipated. At current consumption rates, we have perhaps five weeks of reserves remaining."

  The situation was becoming increasingly precarious. With winter not yet at its midpoint and new fever cases appearing daily, their carefully managed supplies were dwindling faster than pnned.

  "We need to implement stricter rationing," Rosalind decided. "And expand the soutkitchen operation at the main house. It's more efficient to prepare rge quantities centrally than for each household to cook separately."

  Mr. Finch nodded in agreement. "Mrs. Bennett has been stretching the stores admirably. Her barley-and-turnip soup can feed thirty from what would normally serve fifteen."

  "Good. Have we had any response from the Duke?"

  "Not yet, Miss Rose. With weather conditions and military movements, dispatches from the capital are unpredictable at best."

  Rosalind had expected as much. The northern provinces had never been a priority for imperial attention, and with war straining resources everywhere, she could not count on swift assistance from her father.

  "We proceed with what we have, then," she said, rising from her desk. "I'll visit the recovery shed this morning, then check on the Brookfields. Mr. Thomas's mother has been helping prepare medicinal teas, but she's not young, and I worry about her exposure."

  As she prepared to leave, Agnes entered with a sealed letter.

  "From the military hospital, my dy," she said, reverting to Rosalind's formal title as she often did when delivering news she deemed important.

  Rosalind's heart quickened as she recognized the official military seal rather than Thomas's handwriting. With everything happening in the vilge, she had been trying not to worry about the conspicuous absence of letters from him over the past two weeks.

  Opening the letter with trembling fingers, she read:

  Military Recovery Facility Western Province Twelfth Day of Winter Moon

  Miss Rosalind Harrington,

  This letter serves to inform you that Lieutenant Thomas Brookfield has been transferred to the Western Province Recovery Facility for continued rehabilitation. Lieutenant Brookfield was among the patients evacuated from Eastfort Military Hospital when field fever cases began to appear among the wounded.

  The transfer is precautionary in nature. Lieutenant Brookfield's recovery from his injuries continues to progress satisfactorily, though at a slower pace than initially projected. The physicians report that he can now walk short distances with the aid of a cane and has regained approximately sixty percent function in his right arm.

  Due to the current health crisis, all military medical facilities are operating under restricted communication protocols. Lieutenant Brookfield has been informed that he may send one letter per month to designated family contacts.

  Lieutenant Brookfield has requested that you be notified of his relocation and assured of his continued improvement.

  Respectfully, Captain Eleanor Wright Administrator, Western Recovery Facility

  Relief washed over Rosalind. Thomas had been moved away from the eastern front where field fever was rampant. The Western Province facilities were reportedly better equipped and farther from the conflict zone. His physical recovery was proceeding, if slowly.

  "Good news, my dy?" Agnes asked hopefully.

  "Yes," Rosalind confirmed. "Mr. Thomas has been moved to a safer location, away from the worst of the fever outbreak."

  Agnes smiled. "That's a blessing, at least. And his parents will be comforted to hear it."

  Rosalind folded the letter carefully, tucking it into her pocket alongside the wooden pendant she always carried. "I'll tell them myself this afternoon," she said. "For now, though, we have work to do here."

  The following weeks brought little respite. The fever continued to spread through the community despite their best efforts at containment. Twenty-seven cases became forty-two, then fifty-eight. Four more deaths occurred, including one of the Preston children and an elderly farmer who had been in failing health even before contracting the illness.

  The strain began to show on everyone. Care workers developed the hollow-eyed look of chronic exhaustion. Families with sick members waited anxiously for improvement or deterioration. Those still healthy lived in constant fear of developing the telltale dry cough or sudden fever.

  Food supplies dwindled relentlessly. The military requisitions continued despite Rosalind's formal protest to the regional commander, who replied with a terse note stating that "the defense of the realm takes precedence over local shortages."

  Then, three weeks into the outbreak, a glimmer of hope appeared. Peter, the miller's apprentice who had been the first case in the vilge, showed signs of recovery. His fever broke, his breathing eased, and he was able to take nourishment for the first time in days.

  Within the week, five more patients followed a simir pattern—severe illness for approximately twenty days, then a gradual but definite improvement. The knowledge that recovery was possible breathed new life into the exhausted caregivers.

  Mira's mother, who had been keeping meticulous records of symptoms and treatments, identified a pattern: those who received a particur combination of elderberry tonic, willow bark tea, and a strengthening broth made from the st of the autumn root vegetables seemed to recover at a higher rate than those treated with other remedies.

  Rosalind immediately redirected their limited medicinal resources toward this promising regimen, organizing teams to gather the remaining elderberries from the snow-covered bushes and carefully rationing the precious willow bark.

  A letter arrived from Lord Pembrooke, containing valuable information about his experiences managing the eastern estates during a simir outbreak. His suggestions for maintaining essential agriculture with minimal bor—simplified crop rotations, combining livestock management to reduce the number of people needed, communal childcare to free more adults for field work—provided a framework that Rosalind adapted for Thornfield's needs.

  Most significantly, he confirmed what they were beginning to discover themselves: the fever, while dangerous, followed a retively predictable course. Most patients who survived the third week of illness would eventually recover, though complete restoration of strength might take months.

  Armed with this knowledge, Rosalind revised their care protocols and resource allocations. The community began to function with grim efficiency, adapting to the dual pressures of illness and scarcity.

  Then, as January gave way to February, another letter arrived from the Imperial City:

  Harrington House Imperial City Fifth Day of Frost Moon

  Daughter,

  Your report regarding conditions at Thornfield has been received with concern. The illness you describe has indeed reached the capital, though in a milder form than reported in the provinces. The imperial physicians attribute this to better nutrition and living conditions among the court popution.

  I have dispatched a wagon with medical supplies as requested, though I must caution that quantities are limited due to wartime demands. Included are febrifuges, strengthening tonics, and clean bandaging materials as specified in your letter.

  More concerning is your report of dwindling food reserves. Military intelligence suggests that the eastern conflict may continue through spring, pcing further strain on agricultural regions. The Emperor has directed noble families to ensure the security of their primary estates first and foremost.

  Therefore, I must insist that you return to the Imperial City without dey. A military escort will accompany the supply wagon and is under orders to return with you. Your mother is particurly anxious for your safety, and your continued presence in an area experiencing both food scarcity and contagious illness cannot be justified.

  I commend your sense of responsibility toward the Thornfield community, but your primary duty remains to your family and position. The estate steward can oversee necessary operations in your absence.

  I expect your compliance in this matter.

  Your father, Harrington

  Rosalind read the letter twice, her initial relief at the promised supplies quickly overshadowed by her father's unequivocal command to return to the capital. Six months ago—even three months ago—she might have welcomed this summons as an end to her exile. Now, it felt like abandonment of the community that had become her home.

  She was still considering her response when Agnes entered with urgent news.

  "The Brookfield farm, my dy," she said breathlessly. "Mrs. Brookfield has fallen ill. The fever symptoms came on suddenly this morning."

  Rosalind's blood ran cold. Thomas's mother was in her te fifties—firmly within the age range that had proven most vulnerable to the fever. And his father, though still strong, had been working himself to exhaustion maintaining the farm while also helping with community recovery efforts.

  "Prepare my things," Rosalind said immediately. "I'm going there now."

  "But my dy," Agnes protested, "you've been avoiding direct contact with the sick, as we all agreed was safest for those coordinating the recovery efforts."

  "This is different," Rosalind said firmly. "I promised Thomas I would look after his parents. I won't break that promise, especially now."

  As she gathered medical supplies and food provisions, Rosalind made a swift decision about her father's letter. The Duke of Harrington might command his daughter's return, but "Miss Rose" had obligations that could not be abandoned so easily.

  For the next five days, Rosalind barely left the Brookfield farm. She moved Mrs. Brookfield to the sunniest bedroom, opened the windows despite the winter chill as Mira's mother had advised, and established a strict regimen of the treatments that had shown the most promise.

  Mr. Brookfield, typically self-sufficient and stoic, accepted her help with visible gratitude. Together they maintained a constant vigil, taking turns sitting with Mrs. Brookfield, coaxing her to sip the medicinal teas and broths, monitoring her fever, and speaking reassuringly even when she was too delirious to respond.

  On the third day, when Mrs. Brookfield's condition seemed to worsen rather than improve, Rosalind found Mr. Brookfield standing at the window, his weathered face lined with a grief he was trying desperately to contain.

  "She'll recover," Rosalind said with more confidence than she felt. "She's strong, and we caught the illness early."

  Mr. Brookfield nodded without turning from the window. "She was just saying yesterday—before the fever came—how much she was looking forward to Thomas coming home. She's been pnning what to cook for him, how to arrange his room for easier movement while his leg heals."

  Rosalind pced a gentle hand on his arm. "She'll be able to do all those things. We just need to get her through these difficult days."

  He covered her hand with his own briefly. "You know," he said quietly, "when Thomas first started speaking of you, I thought it was foolishness. A duke's daughter and a farmer's son? It could only end in heartbreak for him." He finally turned to meet her eyes. "I'm gd to have been proven wrong."

  The simple statement, delivered with such quiet sincerity, brought tears to Rosalind's eyes. "As am I," she whispered.

  On the fifth day, Mrs. Brookfield's fever finally broke. She woke lucid for the first time in days, weak but unmistakably on the path to recovery. The relief Rosalind felt was so profound that she had to excuse herself to the kitchen, where she allowed herself a brief moment of private tears before returning with a cup of strengthening broth.

  As she was helping Mrs. Brookfield sit up to drink, Maisie arrived from the main house with urgent news.

  "The Duke's wagon has arrived, Miss Rose," she reported. "Medical supplies, just as was promised. But..." she hesitated.

  "What is it, Maisie?" Rosalind prompted.

  "There's a military escort, miss. A captain and four soldiers. They're asking for you, saying they have orders to escort you back to the Imperial City immediately."

  Rosalind had been expecting this since receiving her father's letter, but the reality of it still struck her like a physical blow. She looked at Mrs. Brookfield, pale but improving, and thought of the dozens of other patients throughout the community still fighting the fever. She thought of the agricultural school, the demonstration fields that would need tending when spring arrived, the careful rationing system she had established to stretch their dwindling supplies.

  And she thought of Thomas, recovering in a military hospital, expecting to return to a Thornfield where she waited for him.

  "Tell Mr. Finch to receive the supplies and distribute them according to our established protocol," she instructed Maisie. "Inform the captain that I am currently attending a critical patient and will respond to the Duke's summons when my duties here permit."

  Maisie's eyes widened at this clear defiance of both military authority and ducal command, but she nodded and hurried away to deliver the message.

  Mrs. Brookfield, more alert than she had appeared, reached out to grasp Rosalind's hand weakly.

  "You should not risk your father's displeasure on my account," she said, her voice hoarse from days of coughing.

  Rosalind squeezed her hand gently. "This isn't just about you, though your recovery is certainly important to me. It's about all of Thornfield, all we've built here together." She smiled reassuringly. "Rest now. Don't concern yourself with matters beyond this room."

  Later that evening, as Rosalind was preparing a fresh batch of willow bark tea in the Brookfields' kitchen, a military officer appeared at the door. Mr. Brookfield let him in reluctantly, eyeing the man's insignia with the wariness of someone who had recently seen his son conscripted.

  "Lady Rosalind Harrington?" the officer inquired formally, though it was clear from his expression that he recognized her.

  "I am she," Rosalind acknowledged, wiping her hands on her apron—a garment that would have been unthinkable for her to wear in her previous life at court. "And you are?"

  "Captain James Eastwood, Imperial Guard. I have orders from Duke Harrington to escort you to the Imperial City without dey."

  Rosalind met his gaze steadily. "I appreciate your diligence, Captain, but as you can see, I am currently engaged in essential medical care for this household. Mrs. Brookfield is recovering from field fever and requires constant attention."

  The captain's expression remained professionally neutral. "My orders are quite specific, my dy. The Duke is concerned for your safety given the reports of illness and food shortages in this region."

  "A concern I appreciate," Rosalind replied, "but one that fails to recognize the broader situation. This community is fighting for survival against both the fever and the resource depletion caused by military requisitions. My knowledge and organizational skills are needed here."

  "With all due respect, my dy, there are others who can perform nursing duties. Your father specifically mentioned that the estate steward can oversee operations in your absence."

  Rosalind's patience thinned. "Captain Eastwood, are you familiar with the current state of Thornfield vilge? Have you seen our recovery shed with nearly sixty patients? Are you aware that we've lost six people already, with more hanging in the bance? Or that our food stores are depleted to critical levels because the military has cimed priority on local production?"

  The captain had the grace to look somewhat uncomfortable. "I understand that conditions are difficult, my dy. War creates hardships for everyone."

  "Indeed it does," Rosalind agreed. "Which is why I cannot abandon my responsibilities here simply to secure my own comfort and safety in the capital."

  She could see the conflict in the captain's expression—he had orders to follow, but also appeared to be a reasonable man who could recognize the validity of her position.

  "Perhaps a compromise," he suggested finally. "I could dey our departure by three days to allow you time to organize affairs here and ensure Mrs. Brookfield's continued recovery. But I cannot return to the Duke without you, my dy. My orders are absolute on that point."

  Rosalind considered this offer carefully. Three days would allow her to see Mrs. Brookfield through the most critical phase of recovery, to organize the distribution of the newly arrived medical supplies, and to provide detailed instructions for continuing the community support systems she had established.

  But it would still mean leaving Thornfield when the crisis was far from resolved. Leaving the agricultural school without its most passionate advocate. Leaving the Brookfields without the support she had promised Thomas she would provide.

  "I need to write several letters," she said finally. "Instructions for ongoing management of both the fever response and the estate operations. I'll require at least that much time."

  The captain nodded, clearly relieved that she wasn't outright refusing. "Of course, my dy. Three days, then."

  After he had gone, Mr. Brookfield looked at her with concern. "You can't defy your father indefinitely," he said gently. "And perhaps the capital would be safer for you, with the fever still spreading here."

  Rosalind shook her head. "My pce is here," she said with quiet determination. "I just need time to develop a pn."

  As she carried the freshly brewed tea upstairs to Mrs. Brookfield, Rosalind's mind was already working on that pn. The Duke had sent a military escort with the expectation of her immediate compliance. He would be most displeased when she failed to return with Captain Eastwood.

  But Rosalind Harrington was no longer the obedient daughter whose greatest rebellion had been pursuing a prince against her father's wishes. She had become "Miss Rose" of Thornfield, a woman who had helped farmers survive floods, established an agricultural school, and now fought alongside a community battling illness and scarcity.

  That woman would not abandon her responsibilities, not even for the Duke of Harrington.

  She had three days to make her case—and to prepare for the consequences of her defiance.