Connie Willis - Doomsday Book

Kivrin hesitated.

"My mother said he was only delayed or unable to come. She said perhaps my brothers were ill, and he would come when they were recovered."

"And so he may," Kivrin said, tucking a fur around Rosemund's feet. "We'll leave a letter for him so he'll know where we went."

Rosemund shook her head. "If he lived, he would have come for me."

Kivrin wrapped a coverlet around Rosemund's thin shoulders. "I must fetch food for us to take," she said gently.

Rosemund nodded, and Kivrin went across to the kitchen. There was a sack of onions against the wall and another of apples. They were wizened, and most of them had brown spots, but Kivrin lugged the sack outside. They would not need to be cooked and they would all be in need of vitamins before spring.

"Would you like an apple?" she asked Rosemund.

"Yes," Rosemund said, and Kivrin searched through the sack, trying to find one that was still firm and unwrinkled. She unearthed a reddish-green one, polished it on her leather hose, and took it to her, smiling at the memory of how good an apple would have tasted when she was ill. Or a glass of orange juice.

But after the first bite, Rosemund seemed to lose interest. She leaned back against the doorjamb and looked quietly up at the sky, listening to the steady toll of Roche's bell.

Kivrin went back to sorting the apples, picking out the ones worth taking, and wondering how much the donkey could carry. They would need to take oats for the donkey. There would be no grass, though when they reached Scotland there might be scrub that it could eat. They shouldn't have to take water. There were plenty of streams, but they would need to take a pot to boil it in.

"Your people never came for you," Rosemund said.

Kivrin looked up. She was still sitting against the door with the apple.

They did come, Kivrin thought, but I wasn't there. "No," Kivrin said.

"Think you the plague has killed them?"

"No," Kivrin said, and thought, at least I don't have to think of them dead or helpless somewhere. At least I know they're all right.

"When I go to Sir Bloet, I will tell him how you helped us," Rosemund said. "I will ask that I might keep you and Father Roche by me." Her head went up proudly. "I am allowed attendants and a chaplain."

"Thank you," Kivrin said solemnly.

She set the sack of good apples next to the one of cheese and bread. The bell stopped, its overtones still echoing in the cold air. She picked up the bucket and lowered it into the well. She would cook some porridge and chop the bruised apples into it. It would make a filling meal for the trip.

Rosemund's apple rolled past her feet to the base of the well and stopped. Kivrin stooped to pick it up. It had only a little bite out of it, white against the shrivelled red. Kivrin wiped it against her jerkin. "You dropped your apple," she said, and turned to give it back to her.

Her hand was still open, as if she had leaned forward to catch it when it fell. "Oh, Rosemund," Kivrin said.

Father Roche and I are going to Scotland. There really isn't any point in telling you that, I suppose, since you'll never hear what's on this corder, but perhaps someone will stumble across it on a moor someday or Ms. Montoya will do a dig in northern Scotland when she's finished with Skendgate, and if that happens, I wanted you to know what happened to us.

I know flight is probably the worst thing to do, but I have to get Father Roche away from here. The whole manor is contaminated with the plague — bedding, clothes, the air-and the rats are everywhere. I saw one in the church when I went to get Roche's alb and stole for Rosemund's funeral. And even if he doesn't catch it from them, the plague is all around us, and I will never be able to convince him to stay here. He will want to go and help.

We'll keep off the roads and away from the villages. We've got food enough for a week, and then we'll be far enough north that I should be able to buy food in a town. The clerk had a sack of silver with him. And don't worry. We'll be all right. As Mr. Gilchrist would say, "I've taken every possible precaution."

Apocalyptic was very likely the correct term for his even thinking he could rescue Kivrin, Dunworthy thought. He was worn out by the time Colin got him back to his room, and his temp was back up. "You rest," Colin said, helping him into bed. "You can't have a relapse if you're going to rescue Kivrin."

"I need to see Badri," he said, "and Finch."

"I'll take care of everything," he said, and darted out.

He would need to arrange his and Badri's discharge and med support for the pickup, in case Kivrin were ill. He would need a plague inoculation. He wondered how long would be required for it to take effect. Mary had said she'd inoculated Kivrin while she was in hospital for her corder implant. That had been two weeks before the drop but perhaps it didn't take that long to confer immunity.

The nurse came in to check his temp. "I'm just going off- duty," she said, reading his patch.

"How soon can I be discharged?" he asked.

"Discharged?" she said, sounding surprised, "My, you must be feeling better."

"I am," he said. "How long?"

She frowned. "There's a good deal of difference between being ready for a bit of a walk and being ready to go home." She adjusted the drip. "You don't want to overdo."

She went out, and after a few minutes Colin came in with Finch and the book Dunworthy had given him for Christmas. "I thought perhaps you'd need this for costumes and things." He dumped it on Dunworthy's legs. "I'll just go fetch Badri." He dashed out.

"You're looking a good deal better, sir," Finch said. "I'm so glad. I'm afraid you're badly needed at Balliol. It's Mrs. Gaddson. She's accused Balliol of undermining William's health. She says the combined strain of the epidemic and reading Petrarch has broken his health. She's threatening to go to the Head of the History Faculty with it."

"Tell her she's more than welcome to try. Basingame's in Scotland somewhere," Dunworthy said. "I need you to find how long in advance of exposure an inoculation against bubonic plague needs to be given, and I need the laboratory readied for a drop."

"We're using it for storage just now," Finch said. "We've had several shipments of supplies from London, though none of lavatory paper, even though I specifically requested — "

"Move them into the hall," Dunworthy said. "I want the net ready as soon as possible."

Colin opened the door with his elbow and wheeled Badri in, using his other arm and a knee. "I had to sneak him past the ward sister," he said breathlessly. He pushed the wheelchair up to the bed.

"I want — " Dunworthy said, and stopped, looking at Badri. The thing was impossible. Badri was in no condition to run the net. He looked exhausted by the mere effort of having been brought from the ward, and he was fumbling at the pocket of his robe as he had at his sash.

"We'll need two RTN's, a light measure, and a gateway," Badri said, and his voice sounded exhausted, too, but the despair had gone out of it. "And we'll need authorizations for both drop and pickup."

"What about the protesters who were at Brasenose?" Dunworthy asked. "Will they try to prevent the drop?"

"No," Colin said. "They're over at the National Trust Headquarters. They're trying to shut down the dig."

Good, Dunworthy thought. Montoya will be too occupied with trying to defend her churchyard against picketers to interfere. Too occupied to look for Kivrin's corder.

"What else will you need?" he asked Badri.

"An insular memory and redundant for the backup." He pulled a sheet of paper from the pocket and looked at it. "And a remote hookup so I can run parameter checks."