“Ms. Montoya, I—”
“I suppose I’ll have to call both the salmon
She rang off finally, and Dunworthy put the receiver down and stared at it, certain Andrews had tried to ring while he was on the line with Montoya.
“Didn’t you say there were a lot of epidemics in the Middle Ages?” Colin asked. He was sitting in the window seat with the Middle Ages book on his knees, eating muffins.
“Yes.”
“Well, I can’t find them in this book. How do you spell it?”
“Try Black Death,” Dunworthy said.
Dunworthy waited an anxious quarter of an hour and then tried to ring Andrews again. The lines were still jammed.
“Did you know the Black Death was in Oxford?” Colin said. He had polished off the muffins and begun on the soap tablets. “At Christmas. Just like us!”
“Influenza scarcely compares with the plague,” he said, watching the telephone as if he could will it to ring. “The Black Death killed one-third to one-half of Europe.”
“I know,” Colin said. “And the plague was a lot more interesting. It was spread by rats, and you got these enormous bobos—”
“Buboes.”
“Buboes under your arms, and they turned black and swelled up till they were enormous and then you died! The flu doesn’t have anything like that,” he said, sounding disappointed.
“No.”
“And the flu’s only one disease. There were three sorts of plague. Bubonic, that’s the one with the buboes, pneumonic,” he said, pronouncing the P. “It went in your lungs and you coughed up blood, and sep-tah-keem-ic—”
“Septicemic.”
“Septicemic, which went into your bloodstream and killed you in three hours and your body turned black all over! Isn’t that apocalyptic?”
“Yes,” Dunworthy said.
The telephone rang just after eleven o’clock and Dunworthy snatched it up again, but it was Mary, saying she wouldn’t be able to manage dinner. “We’ve had five new cases this morning.”
“We’ll come to Infirmary as soon as my trunk call has come through,” Dunworthy promised. “I’m waiting for one of my techs to phone. I’m going to have him come and ready the fix.”
Mary looked wary. “Have you cleared this with Gilchrist?”
“Gilchrist! He’s busy planning how to send Kivrin to the Black Death!”
“Nevertheless, I don’t think you should do this without telling him. He
“I thought you were waiting for the analogue.”
“I was, but I’m not satisfied with the way the primary cases are responding to Atlanta’s recommended course of treatment. A few of them are showing a slight improvement, but Badri is worse, if anything. I want all high-risk people to have T-cell enhancement.”
Andrews still hadn’t phoned by noon. Dunworthy sent Colin over to Infirmary to be inoculated. He came back looking pained.
“As bad as all that?” Dunworthy asked.
“Worse,” Colin said, flinging himself down on the windowseat. “Mrs. Gaddson caught me coming in. I was rubbing my arm, and she demanded to know where I’d been and why I was getting inoculated instead of William.” He looked reproachfully at Dunworthy. “Well, it hurts! She said if anyone was high-risk it was poor Willy and it was absolute necrophilia for me to be jabbed instead of him.”
“Nepotism.”
“Nepotism. I hope the priest finds her an absolutely cadaverous job.”
“How was your Great-Aunt Mary?”
“I didn’t see her. They were awfully busy, beds in the corridor and everything.”
Colin and Dunworthy took turns going over to hall for Christmas dinner. Colin was back in something less than fifteen minutes. “The bellringers started to play,” he said. “Mr. Finch said to tell you we’re out of sugar and butter and nearly out of cream.” He pulled a jelly tart out of his jacket pocket. “Why is it they never run out of Brussels sprouts and things?”
Dunworthy gave him orders to come tell him at once if Andrews phoned and to take down any other messages and went over. The bellringers were in full cry, jangling away at a Mozart canon.
Finch handed Dunworthy a plate that seemed to be mostly Brussels sprouts. “We’re nearly out of turkey, I’m afraid, sir,” he said. “I’m glad you’ve come. It’s nearly time for the Queen’s Christmas message.”
The bellringers finished the Mozart to enthusiastic applause, and Ms. Taylor came over, still wearing her white gloves. “There you are, Mr. Dunworthy,” she said. “I missed you at breakfast, and Mr. Finch said you were the one to talk to. We need a practice room.”
He was tempted to say, “I’d no idea you practiced.” He ate a Brussels sprout.
“A practice room?”
“Yes. So we can practice our Chicago Surprise Minor. I’ve arranged with the dean of Christ Church to ring our peal here on New Year’s Day, but we have to have somewhere to practice. I told Mr. Finch the big room in Beard would be perfect—”
“The senior common room.”
“But Mr. Finch said it was being used as a storeroom for supplies.”
