Exchanging Vows: The Swapped Wife Is a Top Shaman novel Chapter 35

Chapter 35: Chapter 35

Ivy’s Point of View

The butler stepped forward and bowed to the young man.

"Young Master Edmund, this is Physician Lin. A traveling healer who claims to have treated conditions others could not cure."

The young man, Professor Aldwin’s son, looked at me with tired, skeptical eyes. "Another one."

"I understand your doubt." I nodded respectfully. "But I ask only for the chance to try."

He sighed heavily, his broad shoulders sagging with exhaustion. "Fine. Do what you will. Everyone else has."

I moved toward the bedroom door. Ash immediately stepped forward to follow me.

"Wait here," I said firmly.

"Young Master, we should accompany you—"

"You have no protection against the illness." I kept my voice low. "None of you do. Stay outside. I’ll be fine."

Nell looked worried, her hands twisting in her skirts. "But—"

"I know what I’m doing. Trust me."

They exchanged uncertain glances but stayed back.

I pulled a cloth mask from my bag and secured it over my face, making sure it covered both my nose and mouth completely. Then I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was dim. Suffocating. The air hung thick and stale, heavy with the smell of sickness and medicinal herbs that had failed to help.

Professor Aldwin lay in a large bed at the center of the room. The sight of him made my heart clench with sympathy.

He was a skeleton wrapped in skin. His face was gaunt and yellow like old parchment. His cheeks had sunken into deep hollows that cast shadows across his features. His hands, resting on the blanket, were nothing but bone and paper-thin flesh covered in age spots.

Every few seconds, a violent cough wracked his frail body, shaking him like a leaf in a storm.

I scanned the room quickly. Windows on all four walls. Every single one shut tight. Curtains drawn against the daylight. No fresh air circulating. No natural light penetrating the gloom.

No wonder he was getting worse. This room was killing him as surely as his illness.

"Open the windows," I ordered.

The butler hesitated, wringing his hands. "The previous physicians said to keep them closed. To prevent the illness from spreading to others—"

"They were wrong." I pointed at the nearest window with authority. "This room is a tomb. The patient needs air. Fresh air. Clean air. Open them. All of them. Now."

The butler looked at Physician Harlow, seeking confirmation. The older physician considered for a moment, stroking his beard thoughtfully, then nodded slowly.

"It... couldn’t hurt at this point. The professor’s condition can hardly worsen."

The butler snapped his fingers at a servant hovering near the door. Within moments, the windows were thrown open one by one. Cool afternoon air flooded the room like water breaking through a dam. Sunlight streamed in, chasing away the oppressive darkness that had settled over everything.

Professor Aldwin squinted against the sudden brightness, raising one skeletal hand to shield his eyes. Then he coughed again. A wet, rattling sound that seemed to come from deep within his chest.

"Don’t bother with any of this." His voice was a thin whisper, barely audible. "I’m dying. Everyone knows it. Just let an old man go in peace."

"Father, please." Edmund rushed to his side, taking his father’s frail hand in both of his own. "Don’t say such things. We’re trying to help you. We haven’t given up."

"Help?" The professor laughed bitterly, though it cost him dearly. The sound turned into another coughing fit that left him gasping. "Twelve physicians. Twelve failures. There is no help for what I have, son. Accept it."

Edmund’s face twisted with anguish, his jaw clenching tight. "There has to be something. There has to be."

"Let me examine him first," Physician Harlow interrupted, stepping forward with professional confidence. He set his leather bag on a nearby table and pulled out various instruments. "If you would allow me, Professor."

The old man waved a skeletal hand dismissively. "Do what you want. Poke and prod to your heart’s content. It won’t change anything."

Physician Harlow worked methodically, his movements practiced and precise. He checked the professor’s pulse at several points along his wrists and neck. Listened to his breathing with a wooden tube pressed firmly to his chest. Examined his eyes by pulling back the lids. His tongue by asking him to open wide. His fingernails by pressing on them and watching the color return.

He asked questions about symptoms. About sleep patterns. About appetite and digestion. About the nature and location of pain.

The professor answered in a tired monotone, his voice growing weaker with each response. Yes, he couldn’t keep food down anymore. No, he hadn’t slept properly in weeks, perhaps months. The pain was everywhere and nowhere. A constant ache that had settled into his bones like an unwelcome guest that refused to leave.

After fifteen minutes of thorough examination, Physician Harlow stepped back from the bed.

His face was grim. His eyes held no hope.

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