Doomsday Book (Oxford Time Travel, #1) - Connie Willis Page 0,111

without explaining to Father Roche. Explaining what? That she’d thought he was a robber, a rapist? That she’d thought he was a nightmare from her delirium?

“Must we go into the church again?” Agnes asked reluctantly.

“It’s all right. There’s no one there except Father Roche.”

In spite of Kivrin’s assurances, Agnes was unwilling to go back in the church. She hid her head in Kivrin’s skirts when Kivrin opened the door, and clung to her leg.

“It’s all right,” Kivrin said, peering into the nave. He was no longer by the tomb. The door shut behind her, and she stood there with Agnes pressed against her, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

He’s not a cutthroat, she told herself. There’s nothing to be afraid of. He gave you the last rites. He held your hand. But her heart was pounding.

“Is the wicked man there?” Agnes whispered, her head jammed against Kivrin’s knee.

“There isn’t any wicked man,” she said, and then saw him. He was standing in front of St. Catherine’s statue. He was holding the candle Kivrin had dropped, and he bent and set it in front of the statue, and then straightened again.

She had thought perhaps it had been some trick of the darkness and the candle’s flame, lighting his face from below, and he wasn’t the cutthroat after all, but he was. He had worn a hood over his head that night, so she couldn’t see his tonsure, but he was bending over the statue the way he had bent over her. Her heart began to pound again.

“Where is Father Roche?” Agnes said, raising her head. “There he is,” she said, and ran toward him.

“No—” Kivrin said, and started after her. “Don’t—”

“Father Roche!” Agnes shouted. “Father Roche! We have been seeking you!” She had obviously forgotten all about the wicked man. “We looked in the church and we looked in the house, but you were not there!”

She was running full tilt at him. He turned and bent down and scooped Agnes up into his arms all in one motion.

“I sought you in the bell tower, but you were not there,” Agnes said without the slightest trace of fear. “Rosemund said you had gone.”

Kivrin stopped even with the last pillar, trying to get her heart to slow down.

“Were you hiding?” Agnes asked. She put one arm trustingly around his neck. “Once Rosemund hid in the barn and jumped down on me. I cried out in a loud voice.”

“Why did you seek me, Agnes?” he said. “Is someone ill?”

He pronounced Agnes, “Agnus, ” and he had nearly the same accent as the boy with the scurvy. The interpreter took a catch step before it translated what he’d said, and Kivrin felt a fleeting surprise that she couldn’t understand him. She had understood everything he said in the sickroom.

He must have been speaking Latin to me, she thought, because there was no mistaking his voice. It was the voice that had said the last rites, the voice that had told her not to be afraid. And she wasn’t afraid. At the sound of his voice, her heart had stopped pounding.

“Nay, none are ill,” Agnes said. “We would go with you to gather ivy and holly for the hall. Lady Kivrin and Rosemund and Saracen and I.”

At the words “Lady Kivrin,” Roche turned and saw her standing there by the pillar. He set Agnes down.

Kivrin put out her hand to the pillar for support. “I beg your pardon, Holy Father,” she said. “I’m so sorry I screamed and ran from you. It was dark, and I didn’t recognize you—”

The interpreter, still a half beat behind, translated that as “I knew you not.”

“She knows naught,” Agnes interrupted. “The wicked man struck her on the head, and she remembers naught save for her name.”

“I had heard this,” he said, still looking at Kivrin. “Is it true you have no memory of why you have come among us?”

She felt the same longing to tell him the truth that she had felt when he’d asked her her name. I’m an historian, she wanted to say. I came here to observe you, and I fell ill, and I don’t know where the drop is.

“She remembers naught of who she is,” Agnes said. “She did not yet remember how to speak. I had to teach her.”

“You remember naught of who you are?” he asked.

“No.”

“And naught of your coming here?” he said.

She could answer that truthfully at least. “No,” she said. “Except that you