The Courcy bells are tolling. Nine strokes. Which one of them is it? The bishop's envoy? The fat monk, who helped steal our horses? Or Sir Bloet? I hope so.

Terrible day. The steward's wife and the boy who ran from me when I went to find the drop both died this afternoon. The steward is digging both their graves, though the ground is so frozen I don't see how he can even make a dent in it. Rosemund and Lefric are both worse. Rosemund can scarcely swallow and her pulse is thready and irregular. Agnes is not as bad, but I can't get her fever down. Roche said vespers in here tonight.

After the set prayers, he said, "Good Jesus, I know you have sent what help you can, but I fear it cannot prevail against this dark plague. Thy holy servant Katherine says this terror is a disease, but how can it be? For it does not move from man to man, but is everywhere at once."

It is.

Ulf the Reeve

Sibbe, daughter of the steward.

Joan, daughter of the steward.

The cook (I don't know her name)

Walthef, oldest son of the steward.

Over fifty per cent of the village has it. Please don't let Eliwys get it. Or Roche.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

He called for help, but no one came, and he thought that everyone else had died and he was the only one left, like the monk, John Clyn, in the monastery of the Friars Minor. "I, waiting for death till it come…"

He tried to press the button to call the nurse, but he couldn't find it. There was a hand bell on the bedstand next to the bed, and he reached for it, but there was no strength in his fingers, and it clattered to the floor. It made a horrible, endless sound, like some nightmarish Great Tom, but nobody came.

The next time he woke, though, the bell was on the bedstand again, so they must have come while he was asleep. He squinted blurrily at the bell and wondered how long he had been asleep. A long time.

There was no way to tell from the room. It was light, but there was no angle to the light, no shadows. It might be afternoon or mid-morning. There was no digital on the bedstand or the wall, and he didn't have the strength to turn and look at the screens on the wall behind him. There was a window, though he could not raise himself up enough to see properly out of it, but he could see enough to tell that it was raining. It had been raining when he went to Brasenose — it could be the same afternoon. Perhaps he had only fainted, and they had brought him here for observation.

"'I also will do this unto you,'" someone said.

Dunworthy opened his eyes and reached for his spectacles, but they weren't there. "'I will even appoint over you terror, consumption, and burning ague.'"

It was Mrs. Gaddson. She was sitting in the chair beside his bed, reading from the Bible. She was not wearing her mask and gown, though the Bible still seemed to be swathed in plastene. Dunworthy squinted at it.

"'And when ye are gathered together within your cities, I will send the pestilence among you.'"

"What day is it?" Dunworthy asked.

She paused, looked curiously at him, and then went on placidly. "'And ye shall be delivered into the hand of the enemy.'"

He could not have been here very long. Mrs. Gaddson had been reading to the patients when he went to find Gilchrist. Perhaps it was still the same afternoon, and Mary had not come in to throw Mrs. Gaddson out yet.

"Can you swallow?" the nurse said. It was the ancient sister from Supplies.

"I need to give you a temp," she croaked. "Can you swallow?"

He opened his mouth, and she put the temp capsule on his tongue. She tipped his head forward so he could drink, her apron crackling.

"Did you get it down?" she asked, letting him lean back a bit.

The capsule was lodged halfway down his throat, but he nodded. The effort made his head ache.

"Good. Then I can remove this." She stripped something from his upper arm.

"What time is it?" he asked, trying not to cough up the capsule.

"Time for you to rest," she said, peering farsightedly at the screens behind his head.

"What day is it?" he said, but she had already hobbled out. "What day is it?" he asked Mrs. Gaddson, but she was gone, too.

He could not have been here long. He still had a headache and a fever, which were Early Symptoms of Influenza. Perhaps he had only been ill a few hours. Perhaps it was still the same afternoon, and he had awakened when they moved him into the room, before they had had time to connect a call button or give him a temp.

"Time for your temp," the nurse said. It was a different one, the pretty student nurse who had asked him all the questions about William Gaddson.

"I've already had one."

"That was yesterday," she said. "Come now, let's have it down."

The first year student in Badri's room had told him she was down with the flu. "I thought you had the flu," he said.

"I did, but I'm better, and so shall you be." She put her hand behind his head and raised him up so he could take a sip of water.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"The eleventh," she said. "I had to think a bit. There at the end things got a bit hectic. Nearly all the staff were down with it, and everyone working double shifts. I quite lost track of the days." She typed something into the console and looked up at the screens, frowning.

He had already known it before she told him, before he tried to reach the bell to call for help. The fever had made one endless rainy afternoon out of all the delirious nights and drugged mornings he could not remember, but his body had kept clear track of the time, tolling off the hours, the days, so that he had known even before she'd told him. He had missed the rendezvous.

There was no rendezvous, he told himself bitterly. Gilchrist shut down the net. It would not have mattered if he had been there, if he had not been ill. The net was closed and there was nothing he could have done.

January eleventh. How long had Kivrin waited at the drop? A day? Two days? Three before she began to think she had the date wrong, or the place? Had she waited all night by the Oxford-Bath road, huddled in her useless white cloak, afraid to build a fire for fear the light would attract wolves or thieves? Or peasants fleeing from the plague. And when had it come to her finally that no one was coming to get her?

"Is there anything I can fetch for you?" the nurse asked. She pushed a syringe into the cannula.

"Is that something to make me sleep?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Good," he said and closed his eyes gratefully.

He slept either a few minutes or a day or a month. The light, the rain, the lack of shadows were the same when he woke. Colin was sitting in the chair beside the bed, reading the book Dunworthy had given him for Christmas and sucking on something. It can't have been that long, Dunworthy thought wryly, squinting at him, the gobstopper is still with us.

"Oh, good," Colin said, shutting the book with a clap. "That horrid sister said I could only stay if I promised not to wake you up, and I didn't, did I? You'll tell her you woke all on your own, won't you?"

He took the gobstopper out, examined it, and stuck it in his pocket. "Have you seen her? She must have been alive during the Middle Ages. She's nearly as necrotic as Mrs. Gaddson."

Dunworthy squinted at him. The jacket whose pocket he had stuck the gobstopper in was a new one, green, the gray plaid muffler around his neck even deadlier against the verdure, and Colin looked older in it, as if he had grown while Dunworthy was asleep.

Colin frowned. "It's me, Colin. Do you know me?"

"Yes, of course I know you. Why aren't you wearing your mask?"

Colin grinned. "I don't have to. And at any rate you're not contagious any more. Do you want your spectacles?"