Gilchrist’s chin went up, and the pinched lines appeared by his nose, visible even through the mask. “As Acting Head of the History Faculty, it is my responsibility to act in the university’s interest. Our position in the community, as I’m certain you’re aware, depends on maintaining the good will of the townspeople. I felt it important to calm the public’s fears by closing the laboratory until the sequencing arrives. If it indicates that the virus is from South Carolina, then of course the laboratory will be reopened immediately.”
“And in the meantime, what about
“If you cannot keep your voice down,” the nurse said, “I shall be forced to report you to Dr. Ahrens.”
“Excellent. Go and fetch her,” Dunworthy told her. “I want her to tell Mr. Gilchrist how ridiculous he’s being. This virus cannot possibly have come through the net.”
The nurse stamped out.
“If your protesters are too ignorant to understand the laws of physics,” Dunworthy said, “surely they can understand the simple fact that this was a
“If that is the case, then Ms. Engle is not in any danger, and it will do no harm to wait for the sequencing.”
“Not in any danger? You don’t even know where she is!”
“Your tech obtained the fix, and indicated the drop was successful and that there was minimal slippage,” Gilchrist said. He rolled down his sleeve and carefully buttoned the cuff. “I’m satisfied Ms. Engle is where she’s supposed to be.”
“Well, I’m not. And I won’t be until I know Kivrin made it through safely.”
“I see I must remind you again that Ms. Engle is my responsibility, not yours, Mr. Dunworthy.” He donned his coat. “I must do as I think best.”
“And you think it best to set up a quarantine around the laboratory to placate a handful of crackpots,” he said bitterly. “There is also ‘considerable public concern’ that the virus is a judgment from God. What do you intend to do to maintain the good will of those townspeople? Resume burning martyrs at the stake?”
“I resent that remark. And I resent your constant interference in matters which do not concern you. You have been determined from the first to undermine Mediaeval, to keep it from gaining access to time travel, and now you are determined to undermine my authority. May I remind you that I am Acting Head of History in Mr. Basingame’s absence, and as such—”
“What you are is an ignorant, self-important fool who should never have been trusted with Mediaeval, let alone Kivrin’s safety!”
“I see no reason to continue this discussion,” Gilchrist said. “The laboratory is under quarantine. It will remain so until we obtain the sequencing.” He walked out.
Dunworthy started after him and nearly collided with Mary. She was wearing SPG’s and reading a chart.
“You will not believe what Gilchrist’s done now,” he said. “A group of picketers convinced him the virus came through the net, and he’s barricaded the laboratory.”
She didn’t say anything or even look up from the chart.
“Badri said this morning that the slippage figures can’t be right. He said over and over, ‘There’s something wrong.’”
She looked up at him distractedly and back at the chart.
“I have a tech ready to read Kivrin’s fix remotely, but Gilchrist’s locked the doors,” he said. You must talk to him, tell him the virus has been firmly established as originating in South Carolina.”
“It hasn’t.”
“What do you mean, it hasn’t? Did the sequencing arrive?”
She shook her head. “The WIC located their tech, but she’s still running it. But her preliminary read indicates it’s not the South Carolina virus.” She looked up at him. “And I know it’s not.” She looked back at the chart. “The South Carolina virus had a zero morbidity rate.”
“What do you mean? Has something happened to Badri?”
“No,” she said, shutting the chart and holding it to her chest. “Beverly Breen.”
He must have looked blank. He had thought she was going to say Latimer.
“The woman with the lavendar umbrella,” she said, and sounded angry. “She died just now.”
22 December 1320 (Old Style.) Agnes’s knee is worse. It’s red and painful (an understatement—she screams when I try to touch it) and she can scarcely walk. I don’t know what to do—if I tell Lady Imeyne, she’ll put one of her poultices on it and make it worse, and Eliwys is distracted and obviously worried.
Gawyn still isn’t back. He should have been home by noon yesterday, and when he hadn’t shown up by vespers, Eliwys accused Imeyne of sending him to Oxford.
“I have sent him to Courcy, as I told you,” Imeyne said defensively. “No doubt the rain keeps him.”
“Only to Courcy?” Eliwys said angrily. “Or have you sent him otherwhere for a new chaplain?”
Imeyne drew herself up. “Father Roche is not fit to say the Christmas masses if Sir Bloet and his company come,” she said. “Would you be shamed before Rosemund’s fiance?”
Eliwys went absolutely white. “Where have you sent him?”
