Borgia. It couldn't be. Even as Sybil's eyes widened at the revelation of her patient's identity, she was dismissing what had to be a fanciful notion. There had to be many by that name, and she was only making the connection because he came from a time before hers. A time she couldn't even be that specific about. Besides, even if he was somehow connected to the infamous Lucrezia, what difference should it make? He was trapped here, as they all were, and if it was difficult for Sybil to accept, how much moreso would it be for someone from centuries before her?
She had to focus on what she was doing. Reaching out again, she put the back of her hand gently to his forehead. Sybil didn't need a thermometer to tell her that his temperature was dangerously high. 'Mr Borgia,' she addressed him now that she knew how, 'the aspirin will do some good, it'll bring down your fever, but you're right that it won't cure you.' There wasn't anything that would; to all appearances he had a nasty case of influenza, and there was little she could do. 'I'll go to the place where you obtained the aspirin, explain the situation to them, and get you something stronger for the pain.' Perhaps it was the same here as it was at home, and pharmacists were getting reluctant to hand over opiates without strong cause. This case, however, certainly qualified.
'In the meantime,' she went on, 'you need to take plenty of water, and a little broth if you can, because you need to keep up your strength to fight off the illness. I'll make some for you, if you like.' Thank goodness she'd had the sense to learn the rudiments of cookery. 'It's certainly not the plague, and you're young and were likely in good enough health before you came here, and that'll go in your favour, but there's no quick cure for this. You'll have to see it out.' She spoke softly again, knowing it was probably far from what he wanted to hear, but she didn't hold with keeping the truth from her patients. It rarely helped.