'Sister Isis!' she said, looking confused.  She stood, smiling nervously.

'Sister Bernadette,' I said. 'Is Allan about?'

'He's with the Founder,' she said. 'Shall I ask him… ?'

'Please.'

She turned to go. 'Oh,' I said, 'and do you know where my kit-bag is?'

'I think Allan said… I'll look, Sister Isis,' she said, and went quickly out the door and across the hall.

I glanced at the letter she had been typing.  It looked like a request for money; it was addressed to Aunt Brigit, the one in the Millennialist cult in Idaho.  There was a pile of similar letters on one side of the typewriter, and a long list of names and addresses in an old school exercise book on the other, with ticks down to Brigit's name.  The list didn't seem to be alphabetical.  I glanced up and down the list, then found Cousin Morag's name just as I heard footsteps out in the hall.  Morag's old address in Finchley had been scored out, as had her old telephone number.  La Mancha's full address had been added by hand.  The footsteps were almost at the door….  And there was a telephone number, no; there were three telephone numbers beside the Essex address.  I felt my jaw drop in astonishment.

I stepped away towards the windows a moment before Allan came into the room, carrying my kit-bag.  He closed the door behind him, placing the kit-bag to one side.  I tried to collect my scattered thoughts.

'Isis,' Allan said, putting the bag down by the door.  He had abandoned his suit and was dressed in a robe not dissimilar to Salvador's.  He indicated the seat in front of his desk. 'Please,' he said.  He sat behind, in his swivel seat.

I stayed where I was, between the tall windows.  A quick shower threw raindrops against the glass.  I said, 'Good afternoon, Allan.  I came to find out where I stand.'

'Ah,' he said, tenting his hands together and looking at them.

'What did Grandfather say about last night?' I asked.

'He… he seems to feel that you… need to confess,' Allan said, with what looked like a pained smile. 'That your soul is… muddied by… by something you've done.' He gave a great sigh. 'Salvador feels you've betrayed… well, yourself, certainly, but also him, and, I suppose, all of us, in a way.  Do you see?'

'I didn't take the vial,' I said. 'And if anyone ought to feel betrayed after last night, it should be me.'

'What?' Allan looked genuinely puzzled, his fair, handsome face coated with a single layer of puzzlement. 'How do you mean?'

I looked at my boots. 'I can't tell you,' I told him. 'I'm sorry.  That's up to Salvador.'

He shook his head. 'Well, I'm afraid he just doesn't want to see you until you apologise and admit you did wrong.  He seems pretty determined about that; like a bear with a sore head this morning, believe me.'

'How are the revisions going?'

He looked startled, just for a moment. 'Oh,' he said, smoothly, shrugging. 'Well enough; you know.'

'Hmm,' I said, giving him time to say more if he wanted to. Apparently, he did not.

I said, 'I hope I'm not being kicked out or anything?'

'Oh, no!' Allan said, shaking his head. 'No. I think Salvador feels that… that a time of reflection and prayer may be called for. Retreat, even.  You may want to contemplate things here, in your room, in the library …' He looked thoughtful for a moment, as though just having an idea.  He raised his eyebrows.  'Perhaps a pilgrimage to Luskentyre, if you wanted to travel?'

'Perhaps.  What about Cousin Morag?'

Allan exhaled loudly, putting his head to one side.  'Another sore point,' he admitted.  'Salvador feels… terribly deceived.'  He shook his head. 'I don't know how he'll jump there.  I'm not sure Morag will be welcome here for the Festival at all. She has made us look foolish.'

'But am I to stop looking for her?'

'I suppose so.  You said the trail had gone cold, anyway.'

'All we'd need would be …' I shrugged '… a telephone number or something, and then I, or somebody, could…'

'Well,' Allan said, looking regretful.  'We had her number for her flat, but …' He held his open hands out to each side.  'She isn't there any more.'

'We've no other contact numbers for her?'

'No.'

'Hmm.  What about her place in the Festival?  It seemed very important a couple of weeks ago.  Isn't it any more?  Isn't anyone to try to find Morag?'

'Well,' Allan said, nodding with that pained expression on his face again.  'Perhaps, on reflection, we overreacted to the situation.'

'What?'

'It's just that,' he stood up, spread his arms wide, 'we've had time to think, review …' He came round from behind the desk.  'I think we all got a bit panicky that day, don't you?' He came up and stood before me, smiling.  He looked fresh and clean and wholesome. 'The situation isn't quite as desperate as we thought back then,' he told me. 'Do you see what I mean?'

I nodded slowly. 'Yes, I think I do.'

'Anyway,' he said, gently taking my arm and walking us both towards the door. 'You don't need to worry about all that.  You should get some… some time to think.  Here's your bag; sorry about all that yesterday - you know how he can be.  Get yourself unpacked and so on, give yourself some time to think, and if you do need to get any sort of message to him, just let me know; I'm… well, I'm desperate to help, Isis; really I am.'

He handed me my kit-bag, then leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. 'See you soon, Isis, and don't worry.' He winked at me. 'Oh, and you can keep the kit-bag,' he said, and smiled.

'Thanks, Allan,' I said, and gave a brave smile.  I went downstairs with the bag over my shoulder, thinking.

My instinct was to sit in my room meditating, or immerse myself in an improving book, or go for a long walk.

Instead I went round talking to other people, forcing myself to ignore the embarrassment both they and I felt, knowing that I had fallen into disfavour.  I started by finding Brother Indra in his workshop and thanking him for the successful alterations he had carried out on the inner-tube which had borne me safely to Edinburgh.  Indra is a quietly cheerful type, shorter than me and slim but muscled with a lot of his mother's appearance in him.  He seemed a little wary of me at first but once we got talking about my trip to England he lost any reserve and we parted cheerfully.

I spoke to everybody I could find, just trying to remind them that I was who I was, not some demonised thief.  I used my journey as the excuse.

Normally somebody coming back from such an important trip and with so much to tell would have been expected to stand up in front of a meeting of the whole Community and tell everybody at once, but it seemed I was not to be asked to do so on this occasion. (It had also not escaped my notice that there had been no ceremonial washing of my feet, which was positively insulting.) I went through my story, altering the weight given to each strand and detail according to whom I was talking; when I spoke with a frowning Calli and weary-looking Astar in the farm kitchen I dwelled shamelessly on Bland food, the encouraging prevalence of Asian people and businesses, and what people had been wearing in London; with my Sisters in general, when I came to the events of the previous evening, I did mention - sometimes with a little, perhaps regretful, smile - that Grandfather had been a little over-affectionate at one point last night, but left it at that, dismissing it with a shrug.  If anybody wanted to know more about the zhlonjiz, I answered their questions honestly, only dissembling when asked if - assuming that I hadn't taken the vial - I had any theories on who might have done so.

In all this - and in something of a daze, for the full enormity of my predicament had not yet dawned upon me - I felt that I was somehow playing the part of the unjustly accused, even though that was exactly what I was.  I wasn't sure why this should be, but the impression lingered, and was still there when I had finally talked to just about every adult - singly or in small, informal groups, often as they worked - in the Community.  I didn't feel bad about this, but the feeling wouldn't go away.  Still, I felt cheered as the evening approached.  Indeed I was half looking forward to the evening meal, when I would be able - assuming I was asked the right questions - to continue pressing my case.