She leaned the spade against her shoulder and read the message, translating the Latin:

"The contagious pestilence of the present day, which is spreading far and wide, has left many parish churches and other livings in our diocese without parson or priest to care for their parishioners."

She looked at Roche. No, she thought. Not here. I won't let that happen here.

"Since no priests can be found who are willing — " The priests were dead or had run away, and no one could be persuaded to take their place, and the people were dying "without the Sacrament of Penance."

She read on, seeing not the black letters but the faded brown ones she had deciphered in the Bodleian. She had thought the letter was pompous and ridiculous. "People were dying right and left," she had told Mr. Dunworthy indignantly, "and all the bishop was concerned about was church protocol!" But now, reading it to the exhausted boy and Father Roche, it sounded exhausted, too. And desperate.

"If they are on the point of death and can not secure the services of a priest," she read, "then they should make confession to each other. We urge you, by these present letters, in the bowels of Jesus Christ, to do this."

Neither the boy nor Roche said anything when she had finished reading. She wondered if the boy had known what he was carrying. She rolled it up and handed it back to him.

"I have been riding three days," the boy said, slumping forward tiredly in the saddle. "Can I not rest here awhile?"

"It is not safe," Kivrin said, feeling sorry for him. "We will give you and your horse food to take with you."

Roche turned to go into the kitchen, and Kivrin suddenly remembered Agnes. "Did you see a little girl on the road?" she asked. "A five-year-old child, with a red cloak and hood?"

"Nay," the boy said, "but there are many on the roads. They flee the pestilence."

Roche was bringing out a wadmal sack. Kivrin turned to fetch some oats for the stallion, and Eliwys shot past them both, her skirts tangling between her legs, her loose hair flying out behind her.

"Don't — " Kivrin shouted, but Eliwys had already caught hold of the stallion's bridle.

"Where do you come from?" she asked, grabbing at the boy's sleeve. "Have you seen aught of Gawyn Fitzroy?"

The boy looked frightened. "I come from Bath, with a message from the bishop," he said, pulling back on the reins. The horse whinnied, and tossed its head.

"What message?" Eliwys said hysterically. "Is it from Gawyn?"

"I do not know the man of whom you speak," the boy said.

"Lady Eliwys — " Kivrin said, stepping forward.

"He rides a black steed with a saddle chased in silver," she persisted, pulling on the stallion's bridle. "He has gone to Bath to fetch my husband, who witnesses at the Assizes."

"None go to Bath," the boy said. "All who can flee it."

Eliwys stumbled, as though the stallion had reared, and seemed to fall against its side.

"There is no court, nor any law," the boy said. "The dead lie in the streets, and all who but look on them die, too. Some say it is the end of the world."

Eliwys let go of the bridle and took a step back. She turned and looked hopefully at Kivrin and Roche. "They will surely be home soon, then. Is it certain you did not see them on the road? He rides a black steed."

"There were many steeds." He kicked the horse forward toward Roche, but Eliwys didn't move.

Roche stepped forward with the sack of food. The boy leaned down, grabbed it, and wheeled the stallion around, nearly running Eliwys down. She didn't try to get out of the way.

Kivrin stepped forward and caught hold of one of the reins. "Don't go back to the bishop," she said.

He jerked up on the reins, looking more frightened of her than of Eliwys.

She didn't let go. "Go north," she said. "The plague isn't there yet."

He wrenched the reins free, kicked the stallion forward, and galloped out of the courtyard.

"Stay off the main roads," Kivrin called after him. "Speak to no one."

Eliwys still stood where she was.

"Come," Kivrin said. "We must find Agnes."

"My husband and Gawyn will have ridden first to Courcy to warn Sir Bloet," she said, and let Kivrin lead her back to the house.

Kivrin looked in the barn. Agnes wasn't there, but she found her own cloak, left there Christmas Eve. She flung it around her and went up into the loft. She looked in the brewhouse and Roche searched the other buildings, but they didn't find her. A cold wind had sprung up while they stood talking to the messenger, and it smelled like snow.

"Perhaps she is in the house," Roche said. "Looked you behind the high seat?"

She searched the house again, looking behind the high seat and under the bed in the solar. Maisry still lay whimpering where Kivrin had left her, and she had to resist the temptation to kick her. She asked Lady Imeyne, kneeling to the wall, if she had seen Agnes or not.

The old woman ignored her, moving her beads and her lips silently.

Kivrin shook her shoulder. "Did you see her go out?"

Lady Imeyne turned and looked at her, her eyes glittering. "She is to blame," she said.

"Agnes?" Kivrin said, outraged. "How could it be her fault?"

Imeyne shook her head and looked past Kivrin at Maisry. "God punishes us for Maisry's wickedness."

"Agnes is missing and it grows dark," Kivrin said. "We must find her. Did you not see where she went?"

"To blame," she whispered and turned back to the wall.

It was getting late now, and the wind was whistling around the screens. Kivrin ran out to the passage and onto the green.

It was like the day she had tried to find the drop on her own. There was no one on the snow-covered green, and the wind whipped and tore at her clothes as she ran. A bell was ringing somewhere far off to the northeast, slowly, a funeral toll.

Agnes had loved the belltower. Kivrin went in, shouted up the stairs to the rope even though she could see up to the bellrope. She went out and stood looking at the huts, trying to think where Agnes would have gone.

Not the huts, unless she had got cold. Her puppy. She had wanted to go see her puppy's grave. Kivrin hadn't told her she'd buried it in the woods. Agnes had told her it had to be buried in the churchyard. Kivrin could see she wasn't there, but she went through the lychgate.

Agnes had been there. The prints of her little boots led from grave to grave and then off to the north side of the church. Kivrin looked up the hill at the beginning of the woods, thinking What if she went into the woods? We'll never find her.

She ran around the side of the church. The prints stopped and circled back to the door of the church. Kivrin opened the door. It was nearly dark inside and colder than the wind-whipped churchyard. "Agnes!" she called.

There was no answer, but there was a faint sound up by the altar, like a rat scurrying out of sight. "Agnes?" Kivrin said, peering into the gloom behind the tomb, in the side aisles. "Are you here?" she said.

"Kivrin?" a quavering little voice said.

"Agnes?" she said, and ran in its direction. "Where are you?"

She was by the statue of St. Catherine, huddled among the candles at its base in her red cape and hood. She had pressed herself against the rough stone skirts of the statue, eyes wide and frightened. Her face was red and damp with tears. "Kivrin?" she cried, and flung herself into her arms.

"What are you doing here, Agnes?" Kivrin said, angry with relief. She hugged her tightly. "We've been looking everywhere for you."

She buried her wet face against Kivrin's neck. "Hiding," she said. "I took Cart to see my hound, and I fell down." She wiped at her nose with her hand. "I called and called for you, but you didn't come."

"I didn't know where you were, honey," Kivrin said, stroking her hair. "Why did you come in the church?"