She was immediately dizzy. She sat, her bare legs dangling over the side of the high bed, waiting for it to pass. She was wearing her linen shift and nothing else. She wondered where her clothes were. At least they had let her keep her shift. People in the Middle Ages didn't usually wear anything to bed.

People in the Middle Ages didn't have indoor plumbing either, she thought, and hoped she wouldn't have to go outside to a privy. Castles sometimes had enclosed garderobes, or corners over a shaft that had to be cleaned out at the bottom, but this wasn't a castle.

The young woman put a thin, folded blanket around Kivrin's shoulders like a shawl, and they both helped her off the bed. The planked wooden floor was icy. She took a few steps and was dizzy all over again. I'll never make it all the way outside, she thought.

"Wotan shay wootes nawdaor youse der jordane?" the old woman said sharply, and Kivrin thought she recognized jardin, the French for garden, but why would they be discussing gardens?

"Thanway maunhollp anhour," the young woman said, putting her arm around Kivrin and draping Kivrin's arm over her shoulders. The old woman gripped her other arm with both hands. She hardly came to Kivrin's shoulder, and the young woman didn't look like she weighed more than ninety pounds, but between them they walked her to the end of the bed.

Kivrin got dizzier with every step. I'll never make it all the way outside, she thought, but they had stopped at the end of the bed. There was a chest there, a low wooden box with a bird or possibly an angel carved roughly into the top. On it lay a wooden basin full of water, the bloody bandage that had been around Kivrin's forehead, and a smaller, empty bowl. Kivrin, concentrating on not falling over, didn't realize what it was until the old woman said, "Swoune nawmaydar oupondre yorresette," and pantomimed lifting her heavy skirts and sitting on it.

A chamberpot, Kivrin thought gratefully. Mr. Dunworthy, chamberpots were extant in country village manor houses in 1320. She nodded to show she understood and let them ease her down onto it, though she was so dizzy she had to grab at the heavy bedhangings to keep from falling, and her chest hurt so badly when she tried to stand up again that she doubled over.

"Maisry!" the old woman shouted toward the door. "Maisry, Com undtvae holpoon!" and the inflection indicated clearly that she was calling someone — Marjorie? Mary?-to come and help, but no one appeared, so perhaps she was wrong about that, too.

She straightened a little, testing the pain, and then tried to stand up, and the pain had lessened a little, but they still had to nearly carry her back to the bed, and she was exhausted by the time she was back under the bedcoverings. She closed her eyes.

"Slaeponpon donu paw daton," the young woman said, and she had to be saying, "Rest," or "Go to sleep," but she still couldn't decipher it. The interpreter's broken, she thought, and the little knot of panic started to form again, worse than the pain in her chest.

It can't be broken, she told herself. It's not a machine. It's a chemical syntax and memory enhancer. It can't be broken. It could only work with words in its memory, though, and obviously Mr. Latimer's Middle English was useless. Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote. Mr. Latimer's pronunciations were so far off the interpreter couldn't recognize what it was hearing as the same words, but that didn't mean it was broken. It only meant it had to collect new data, and the few sentences it had heard so far weren't enough.

It recognized the Latin, she thought, and the panic stabbed at her again, but she resisted it. It had been able to recognize the Latin because the rite of extreme unction was a set piece. She had already known what words should be there. The words the women spoke weren't a set piece, but they were still decipherable. Proper names, forms of address, nouns and verbs and prepositional phrases would appear in set positions that repeated again and again. They would separate themselves out rapidly, and the interpreter would be able to use them as the key to the rest of the code. And what she needed to do now was collect data, listen to what was said without even trying to understand it, and let the interpreter work.

"Thin keowre hoorwoun desmoortale?" the young woman asked.

"Got tallon wottes," the old woman said.

A bell began to ring, far away. Kivrin opened her eyes. Both women had turned to look at the window, even though they couldn't see through the linen.

"Bere wichebay gansanon," the young woman said.

The old woman didn't answer. She was staring at the window, as if she could see past the stiffened linen, her hands clasped in front of her as if in prayer.

"Aydreddit ister fayve riblaun," the young woman said, and in spite of her resolution, Kivrin tried to make it into, "It is time for vespers," or "There is the vespers bell," but it wasn't vespers. The bell went on tolling, and no other bells joined in. She wondered if it was the bell she had heard before, ringing all alone in the late afternoon.

The old woman turned abruptly away from the window. "Nay, Elwiss, itbahn diwolffin." She picked up the chamberpot from the wooden chest. "Gawynha thesspyd — "

There was a sudden scuffling outside the door, a sound of footsteps running up stairs, and a child's voice crying, "Modder! Eysmertemay!"

A little girl burst into the room, blonde braids and cap strings flying, nearly colliding with the old woman and the chamberpot. The child's round face was red and smeared with tears.

"Wol yadothoos forshame ahnyous!" the old woman growled at her, lifting the treacherous bowl out of reach. "Yowe maun naroonso inhus."

The little girl paid no attention to her. She ran straight at the young woman, sobbing, "Rawzamun hattmay smerte, Modder!"

Kivrin gasped. Modder. That had to be mother.

The little girl held up her arms, and her mother, oh, yes, definitely mother picked her up. She fastened her arms around her mother's neck and began to howl.

"Shh, ahnyous, shh," the mother said. That guttural's a G, Kivrin thought. A hacking German G. Shh, Agnes.

Still holding her, the mother sat down on the window seat. She wiped at the tears with the tail of her coif. "Spekenaw dothass bifel, Agnes."

Yes, definitely Agnes. And speken was tell. Tell me what happened.

"Shayoss mayswerte!" Agnes said, pointing at another child who had just come into the room. The second girl was considerably older, nine or ten at least. She had long brown hair that hung down her back and was held in place by a dark blue kerchief.

"Itgan naso, ahnyous," she said. "Tha pighte rennin gawn derstayres," and there was no mistaking that combination of affection and contempt. She didn't look like the blonde little girl, but Kivrin was willing to bet this dark-haired girl was the little one's sister. "Shay pighte renninge ahndist eyres, modder."

Mother again, and shay was she and pighte must be fell. It sounded French, but the key to this was German. The pronunciations, the constructions were German. Kivrin could almost feel it click into place.

"Na comfitte horr thusselwys," the older woman said. "She hathnau woundes. Hoor teres been fornaught mais gain thy pitye."

"Hoor nay ganful bloody," the woman whose name was Eliwys said, but Kivrin couldn't hear her. She was hearing instead the interpreter's translation, still clumsy and obviously more than a beat behind, but a translation:

"Don't pamper her, Eliwys. She is not injured. Her tears are but to get your attention."

And the mother, whose name was Eliwys, "Her knee is bleeding."