Doomsday Book (Oxford Time Travel, #1) - Connie Willis Page 0,5
two white lines appeared on either side of his nose. “May I remind you, Mr. Dunworthy,” he said coldly, “that this drop is Brasenose’s, not Balliol’s. I of course appreciate the assistance you have given in loaning us your tech, and I respect your many years of experience as an historian, but I assure you I have everything well in hand.”
“Then why is your historian injured before she’s even left?”
“Oh, Mr. Dunworthy, I’m so glad you came,” Kivrin said, coming up to the glass. “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to say good-bye to you. Isn’t this exciting?”
“Nothing,” Kivrin said, touching her temple gingerly and then looking at her fingers. “It’s part of the costume.” She looked past him at Mary. “Dr. Ahrens, you came, too. I’m so glad.”
Mary had stood up, still holding her shopping bag. “I want to see your antiviral inoculation,” she said. “Have you had any other reaction besides the swelling? Any itching?”
“It’s all right, Dr. Ahrens,” Kivrin said. She held the sleeve back and then let it fall again before Mary could possibly have had a good look at the underside of her arm. There was another reddish bruise on Kivrin’s forearm, already beginning to turn black and blue.
“It would seem to be more to the point to ask her why she’s bleeding,” Dunworthy said.
“It’s part of the costume. I told you, I’m Isabel de Beauvrier, and I’m supposed to have been waylaid by robbers while traveling,” Kivrin said. She turned and gestured at the boxes and smashed wagon. “My things were stolen, and I was left for dead. I got the idea from you, Mr. Dunworthy,” she said reproachfully.
“I certainly never suggested that you start out bloody and beaten,” Dunworthy said.
“Stage blood was impractical,” Gilchrist said. “Probability couldn’t give us statistically significant odds that no one would tend her wound.”
“And it never occurred to you to dupe a realistic wound? You knocked her on the head instead?” Dunworthy said angrily.
“Mr. Dunworthy, may I remind you—”
“That this is Brasenose’s project, not Balliol’s? You’re bloody right it isn’t. If it were Twentieth Century’s, we’d be trying to protect the historian from injury, not inflicting it on her ourselves. I want to speak to Badri. I want to know if he’s rechecked the apprentice’s calculations.”
Gilchrist’s lips pursed. “Mr. Dunworthy, Mr. Chaudhuri may be your net technician, but this is my drop. I assure you we have considered every possible contingency—”
“It’s just a nick,” Kivrin said. “It doesn’t even hurt. I’m all right, really. Please don’t get upset, Mr. Dunworthy. The idea of being injured was mine. I remembered what you said about how a woman in the Middle Ages was so vulnerable, and I thought it would be a good idea if I looked more vulnerable than I was.”
It would be impossible for you to look more vulnerable than you are, Dunworthy thought.
“If I pretend to be unconscious, then I can overhear what people are saying about me, and they won’t ask a lot of questions about who I am, because it will be obvious that—”
“It’s time for you to get into position,” Gilchrist said, moving threateningly over to the wall panel.
“I’m coming,” Kivrin said, not budging.
“We’re ready to set the net.”
“I know,” she said firmly. “I’ll be there as soon as I’ve told Mr. Dunworthy and Dr. Ahrens good-bye.”
Gilchrist nodded curtly and walked back into the debris. Latimer asked him something, and he snapped an answer.
“What does getting into position entail?” Dunworthy asked. “Having him take a cosh to you because Probability’s told him there’s a statistical possibility someone won’t believe you’re truly unconscious?”
“It involves lying down and closing my eyes,” Kivrin said, grinning. “Don’t worry.”
“There’s no reason you can’t wait until tomorrow and at least give Badri time to run a parameter check,” Dunworthy said.
“I want to see that inoculation again,” Mary said.
“Will you two stop fretting?” Kivrin said. “My inoculation doesn’t itch, the cut doesn’t hurt, Badri’s spent all morning running checks. I know you’re worried about me, but please don’t be. The drop’s on the main road from Oxford to Bath only two miles from Skendgate. If no one comes along, I’ll walk into the village and tell them I’ve been attacked by robbers. After I’ve determined my location so I can find the drop again.” She put her hand up to the glass. “I just want to thank you both for everything you’ve done. I’ve wanted to go to the Middle Ages more than