"To the drop?" Kivrin said. "Are you taking me to the drop?"

"Asperges me, Domine, hyssope et mundabor," the priest said. Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, O Lord, and I shall be cleansed. She could understand him perfectly.

"Help me," she said in Latin. "I must return to the place from which I came."

"…nominus…," the priest said, so softly she couldn't hear him. Name. Something about her name. She raised her head. It felt curiously light, as though all her hair had burned away.

"My name?" she said.

"Can you tell me your name?" he said in Latin.

She was supposed to tell them she was Isabel de Beauvrier, daughter of Gilbert de Beauvrier, from the East Riding, but her throat hurt so she didn't think she could get it out.

"I have to go back," she said. "They won't know where I've gone."

"Confiteor deo omnipotenti," the priest said from very far away. She couldn't see him. When she tried to look past the cutthroat, all she could see were flames. They must have lit the fire again. "Beatae Mariae semper Virgini…"

He's saying the Confiteor Deo, she thought, the prayer of confession. The cutthroat shouldn't be here. There shouldn't be anyone else in the room during a confession.

It was her turn. She tried to fold her hands in prayer and couldn't, but the priest helped her, and when she couldn't remember the words, he recited them with her. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I confess to almighty God, and to you Father, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, deed and omission, through my fault."

"Mea culpa," she whispered, "mea culpa, mea maxima culpa." Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault, but that wasn't right, that was only in the Confiteor Deo.

"How have you sinned?" the priest said.

"Sinned?" she said blankly.

"Yes," he said gently, leaning so close he was practically whispering in her ear. "That you may confess your sins and have God's forgiveness, and enter into the kingdom eternal."

All I wanted to do was go to the Middle Ages, she thought. I worked so hard, learning the languages and the customs and doing everything Mr. Dunworthy told me. All I wanted to do was to be an historian.

She swallowed, a feeling like flame. "I have not sinned."

The priest drew back then, and she thought he had gone away angry because she wouldn't confess her sins.

"I should have listened to Mr. Dunworthy," she said. "I shouldn't have left the drop."

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus sancti. Amen," she priest said. His voice was gentle, comforting. She felt his cool, cool touch on her forehead.

"Quid quid deliquisti," the priest murmured. "Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy…" He touched her eyes, her ears, her nostrils, so lightly she couldn't feel his hand at all, but only the cool touch of the oil.

That isn't part of the sacrament of penance, Kivrin thought. That's the ritual for extreme unction. He's saying the last rites.

"Don't — " Kivrin said.

"Be not afraid," he said. "May the Lord pardon thee whatever offenses thou hast committed by walking," he said and put out the fire that was burning the soles of her feet.

"Why are you giving me the last rites?" Kivrin said and then remembered they were burning her at the stake. I'm going to die here, she thought, and Mr. Dunworthy will never know what happened to me.

"My name is Kivrin," she said. "Tell Mr. Dunworthy — "

"May you behold your Redeemer face to face," the priest said, only it was the cutthroat speaking. "And standing before Him may you gaze with blessed eyes on the truth made manifest."

"I'm dying, aren't I?" she asked the priest.

"There is naught to fear," he said, and took her hand.

"Don't leave me," she said, and clutched his hand.

"I will not," he said, but she couldn't see him for all the smoke. "May Almighty God have mercy upon thee, and forgive thee thy sins, and bring thee unto life everlasting," he said.

"Please come and get me, Mr. Dunworthy," she said, and the flames roared up between them.

Domine, mittere digneris sanctum Angelum tuum de caelis, qui custodiat, foveat, protegat, visitet, atque defendat omnes habitantes in hoc habitaculo.[1]

Exaudi orationim meam et clamor meus ad te veniat.[2]

"What is it, Badri? What's wrong?" Dunworthy asked.

"Cold," Badri said. Dunworthy leaned across him and pulled the sheet and blanket up over his shoulders. The blanket seemed pitifully inadequate, as thin as the paper gown Badri was wearing. No wonder he was cold.

"Thank you," Badri murmured. He pulled his hand out from under the bedclothes and took hold of Dunworthy's. He closed his eyes.

Dunworthy glanced anxiously at the displays, but they were as inscrutable as ever. The temp still read 39.7. Badri's hand felt very hot, even through the imperm glove, and the fingernails looked odd, almost a dark blue. Badri's skin seemed darker, too, and his face looked somehow thinner even than when they had brought him in.

The ward sister, whose outline under her paper robe looked uncomfortably like Mrs. Gaddson's, came in and said gruffly, "The list of primary contacts is on the chart." No wonder Badri was afraid of her. "CH1," she said, pointing to the keyboard under the first display on the left.

A chart divided into hour-long blocks came up on the screen. His own name, Mary's, and the ward sister's were at the top of the chart with the letters SPG after them, in parentheses, presumably to indicate that they were wearing protective garments when they came into contact with him.

"Scroll," Dunworthy said and the chart moved up over the screen through the arrival at the hospital, the ambulance medics, the net, the last two days. Badri had been in London Monday morning setting up an on-site for Jesus College. He had come up to Oxford on the tube at noon.

He had come to see Dunworthy at half-past two and was there until four. Dunworthy entered the times on the chart. Badri had told him he'd gone to London Sunday, though he couldn't remember what time. He entered, "London — phone Jesus for time of arrival."

"He drifts in and out a good bit," the sister said disapprovingly. "It's the fever." She checked the drips, gave a yank to the bedclothes, and went out.

The door's shutting seemed to wake Badri up. His eyes fluttered open.

"I need to ask you some questions, Badri," he said. "We need to find out who you've seen and talked to. We don't want them to come down with this, and we need you to tell us who they are."

"Kivrin," he said. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but his hand was holding tightly to Dunworthy's. "In the laboratory."

"This morning?" Dunworthy said. "Did you see Kivrin before this morning? Did you see her yesterday?"

"No."

"What did you do yesterday?"

"I checked the net," he said weakly, and his hand clung to Dunworthy's.

"Were you there all day?"

He shook his head, the effort producing a whole series of bleeps and climbs on the displays. "I went to see you."

Dunworthy nodded. "You left me a note. What did you do after that? Did you see Kivrin?"

"Kivrin," he said. "I checked Puhalski's coordinates."

"Were they correct?"

He frowned. "Yes."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. I verified them twice." He stopped to catch his breath. "I ran an internal check and a comparator."

Dunworthy felt a rush of relief. There hadn't been a mistake in the coordinates. "What about the slippage? How much slippage was there?"