It wasn't really a room — there was only space for the bed and a narrow camp stool, not even a chair. The wall behind the bed was covered with displays and equipment. The far wall had a curtained window and more equipment. Mary glanced briefly at Badri and then began scanning the displays.

Dunworthy looked at the screens. The one nearest him was full of numbers and letters. The bottom line read: "ICU 14320691-22-12-54 1803 200/RPT 1800CRS IMJPCLN 200MG/q6h NHS40- 211-7 M AHRENS." Apparently the doctor's orders.

The other screens showed spiking lines and columns of figures. None of them made any sense except for a number in the middle of the small display second from the right. It read, "Temp: 39.9." Dear God.

He looked at Badri. He was lying with his arms outside the bedclothes, his arms both connected to drips that hung from stanchions. One of the drips had at least five bags feeding into the main tube. His eyes were closed, and his face looked thin and drawn, as if he had lost weight since this morning. His dark skin had a strange purplish cast to it.

"Badri," Mary said, leaning over him, "Can you hear us?"

He opened his eyes and looked at them without recognition, which was probably due less to the virus than to the fact that they were covered from head to foot in paper.

"It's Mr. Dunworthy," Mary said helpfully. "He's come to see you." Her bleeper started up.

"Mr. Dunworthy?" he said hoarsely and tried to sit up.

Mary pushed him gently down into the pillow. "Mr. Dunworthy has some questions for you," she said, patting his chest gently the way she had in the net at Brasenose. She straightened up, watching the displays on the wall behind him. "Lie still. I need to leave now, but Mr. Dunworthy will stay with you. Rest and try to answer Mr. Dunworthy's questions." She left.

"Mr. Dunworthy?" Badri said again as if he were trying to make sense of the words.

"Yes," Dunworthy said. He sat down on the campstool. "How are you feeling?"

"When do you expect him back?" he said, and his voice sounded weak and strained. He tried to sit up again. Dunworthy put out his hand to stop him.

"Have to find him," he said. "There's something wrong."

CHAPTER EIGHT

They were burning her at the stake. She could feel the flames. They must already have tied her to the stake, though she could not remember that. She remembered them lighting the fire. She had fallen off the white horse, and the cutthroat had picked her up and carried her over to it.

"We must go back to the drop,' she had told him.

He had leaned over her, and she could see his cruel face in the flickering firelight.

"Mr. Dunworthy will open the net as soon as he realizes something's wrong," she had told him. She shouldn't have told him that. He had thought she was a witch and had brought her here to be burned.

"I'm not a witch," she said, and immediately a hand came out of nowhere and rested coolly on her forehead.

"Shh," a voice said.

"I am not a witch," she said, trying to speak slowly so they would understand her. The cutthroat hadn't understood her. She had tried to tell him they shouldn't leave the drop, but he had paid no attention to her. He had put her on his white horse and led it out of the clearing and through the stand of white-trunked birches, into the thickest part of the forest.

She had tried to pay attention to which way they were going so she could find her way back, but the man's swinging lantern had lit only a few inches of ground at their feet, and the light had hurt her eyes. She had closed them, and that was a mistake because the horse's awkward gait made her dizzy, and she had fallen off the horse onto the ground.

"I am not a witch," she said. "I'm an historian."

"Hawey fond enyowuh thissla dey?" the woman's voice said, far away. She must have come forward to put a faggot on the fire and then stepped back again, away from the heat.

"Enwodes fillenun gleydund sore destrayste." a man's voice said, and the voice sounded like Mr. Dunworthy's. "Ayeen mynarmehs hoor alle op hider ybar."

"Sweltes shay dumorte blauen?" the woman said.

"Mr. Dunworthy," Kivrin said, holding out her arms to him, "I've fallen among cutthroats!" but she couldn't see him through the smothering smoke.

"Shh," the woman said, and Kivrin knew that it was later, that she had, impossibly, slept. How long does it take to burn, she wondered. The fire was so hot she should be ashes by now, but when she held her hand up, it looked untouched, though little red flames flickered along the edges of the fingers. The light from the flames hurt her eyes. She closed them.

I hope I don't fall off the horse again, she thought. She had been clinging to the horse, both arms around its neck, though its uneven walk made her head ache even worse, and she had not let go, but she had fallen off, even though Mr. Dunworthy had insisted she learn how to ride, had arranged for her to have lessons at a riding stable near Woodstock. Mr. Dunworthy had told her this would happen. He had told her they would burn her at the stake.

The woman put a cup to her lips. It must be vinegar in a sponge, Kivrin thought, they gave that to martyrs. But it wasn't. It was a warm, sour liquid. The woman had to tilt Kivrin's head forward to drink it, and it came to Kivrin for the first time that she was lying down.

I'll have to tell Mr. Dunworthy, she thought, they burned people at the stake lying down. She tried to bring her hands up to her lips in the position of prayer to activate the corder, but the weight of the flames dragged them down again.

I'm ill, Kivrin thought, and knew that the warm liquid had been a medicinal potion of some kind, and that it had brought her fever down a little. She was not lying on the ground after all, but in a bed in a dark room, and the woman who had hushed her and given her the liquid was there beside her. She could hear her breathing. Kivrin tried to move her head to see her, but the effort made it hurt again. The woman must be asleep. Her breathing was even and loud, almost like snoring. It hurt Kivrin's head to listen to it.

I must be in the village, she thought. The redheaded man must have brought me here.

She had fallen off the horse, and the cutthroat had helped her back on, but when she looked into his face, he hadn't looked like a cutthroat at all. He was young, with red hair and a kind expression, and he had leaned over her where she was sitting against the wagon wheel, kneeling on one knee beside her and said, "Who are you?"

She had understood him perfectly.

"Canstawd ranken derwyn?" the woman said and tilted Kivrin's head forward for more of the bitter liquid. Kivrin could barely swallow. The fire was inside her throat now. She could feel the little orange flames, though the liquid should have put them out. She wondered if he had taken her to some foreign land, Spain or Greece, where the people spoke a language they hadn't put into the interpreter.

She had understood the redheaded man perfectly. "Who are you?" he had asked, and she had thought that the other man must be a slave he'd brought back from the Crusades, a slave who spoke Turkish or Arabic, and that was why she couldn't understand him.

"I'm an historian," she had said, but when she looked up into his kind face it wasn't him. It was the cutthroat.

She had looked wildly around for the red-headed man, but he wasn't there. The cutthroat picked up sticks and laid them on some stones for a fire.

"Mr. Dunworthy!" Kivrin had called out desperately, and the cutthroat had come and knelt in front of her, the light from his lantern flickering on his face.

"Fear not," he had said. "He will return soon."

"Mr. Dunworthy!" she had screamed, and the red-headed man had come and knelt beside her again.