Doomsday Book (Oxford Time Travel, #1) - Connie Willis Page 0,208

back to the hall. It was still hazy from the sulfur, and the clerk’s arms looked almost black in the yellowish light. The fire was no better than the one in the woman’s hut. Kivrin brought in the last of the cut wood and then told Eliwys to lie down, that she would tend Rosemund.

“Nay,” Eliwys said, glancing toward the door. She added, almost to herself, “He has been three days on the road.”

It was seventy kilometers to Bath, a day and a half at least on horseback and the same amount of time back, if he had been able to get a fresh horse in Bath. He might be back today, if he had found Lord Guillaume immediately. If he comes back, Kivrin thought.

Eliwys glanced at the door again, as if she heard something, but the only sound was Agnes, crooning softly to her cart. She had put a kerchief over it like a blanket and was spooning make-believe food into it. “He has the blue sickness,” she told Kivrin.

Kivrin spent the rest of the day doing household chores—bringing in water, making broth from the roast joint, emptying the chamber pots. The steward’s cow, its udders swollen in spite of Kivrin’s orders, came lowing into the courtyard and followed her, nudging her with its horns till Kivrin gave up and milked it. Roche chopped wood in between visits to the steward and the boy, and Kivrin, wishing she had learned how to split wood, hacked clumsily at the big logs.

The steward came to fetch them again just before dark to his younger daughter. That’s eight cases so far, Kivrin thought. There were only forty people in the village. One third to one half of Europe was supposed to have caught the plague and died and Mr. Gilchrist thought that was exaggerated. One third would be thirteen cases, only five more. Even at fifty percent, only twelve more would get it, and the steward’s children had all already been exposed.

She looked at them, the older daughter stocky and dark like her father, the youngest boy sharp-faced like his mother, the scrawny baby. You’ll all get it, she thought, and that will leave eight.

She couldn’t seem to feel anything, even when the baby began to cry and the girl took it on her knee and stuck her filthy finger in its mouth. Thirteen, she prayed. Twenty at the most.

She couldn’t feel anything for the clerk either, even though it was clear he could not last the night. His lips and tongue were covered with a brown slime, and he was coughing up a watery spittle that was streaked with blood. She tended him automatically, without feeling.

It’s the lack of sleep, she thought, it’s making us all numb. She lay down by the fire and tried to sleep, but she seemed beyond sleep, beyond tiredness. Eight more people, she thought, adding them up in her mind. The mother will catch it, and the reeve’s wife and children. That leaves four. Don’t let one of them be Agnes or Eliwys. Or Roche.

In the morning Roche found the cook lying in the snow in front of her hut, half-frozen and coughing blood. Nine, Kivrin thought.

The cook was a widow, with no one to take care of her, so they brought her into the hall and laid her next to the clerk, who was, amazingly, horribly, still alive. The hemorrhaging had spread all over his body now, his chest crisscrossed with bluish-purple marks, his arms and legs nearly solid black. His cheeks were covered with a black stubble that seemed somehow a symptom, too, and under it his face was darkening.

Rosemund still lay white and silent, balanced between life and death, and Eliwys tended her quietly, carefully, as if the slightest movement, the slightest sound, might tip her into death. Kivrin tiptoed among the pallets, and Agnes, sensing the need for silence, fell completely apart.

She whined, she hung on the barricade, she asked Kivrin half a dozen times to take her to see her hound, her pony, to get her something to eat, to finish telling her the story of the naughty girl in the woods.

“How does it end?” she whined in a tone that set Kivrin’s teeth on edge. “Do the wolves eat the girl?”

“I don’t know,” Kivrin snapped after the fourth time. “Go and sit by your grandmother.”

Agnes looked contemptuously at Lady Imeyne, who still knelt in the corner, her back to all of them. She had been there all night. “Grandmother will