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And no doubt “Grandmother” had boxed Maisry’s ears because of it, Kivrin thought. Maisry had already been in trouble once today for losing Agnes, who had come to show Kivrin Lady Imeyne’s silver chain, which she said was “a rillieclary,” a word that defeated the interpreter. Inside the little box, she told Kivrin, was a piece of the shroud of St. Stephen. Maisry had had her pocked cheek slapped by Imeyne for letting Agnes take the reliquary and for not watching her, though not for letting the little girl in the sickroom.

None of them seemed concerned at all about the little girls getting close to Kivrin or to be aware that they might catch what she had. Neither Eliwys nor Imeyne took any precautions in caring for her.

The contemps hadn’t understood the mechanics of disease transmission, or course—they believed it was a consequence of sin and epidemics were a punishment from God—but they had known about contagion. The motto of the Black Death had been, “Depart quickly, go far, tarry long,” and there had been quarantines before that.

Not here, Kivrin thought, and what if the little girls come down with this? Or Father Roche?

He had been near her all through her fever, touching her, asking her name. She frowned, trying to remember that night. She had fallen off the horse, and then there was a fire. No, she had imagined that in her delirium. And the white horse. Gawyn’s horse was black.

They had ridden through a wood and down a hill past a church, and the cutthroat had—. It was no use. The night was a shapeless dream of frightening faces and bells and flames. Even the drop was hazy, unclear. There had been an oak tree and willows, and she had sat down against the wagon wheel because she felt so dizzy, and the cutthroat had—No, she had imagined the cutthroat. And the white horse. Perhaps she had imagined the church as well.

She would have to ask Gawyn where the drop was, but not in front of Lady Imeyne, who thought she was a daltriss. She had to get well, to get enough strength to get out of bed and go down to the hall, out to the stable, to find Gawyn to speak to him alone. She had to get better.

She was a little stronger, though she was still too weak to walk to the chamberpot unaided. The dizziness was gone, and the fever, but her shortness of breath persisted. They apparently thought she was improving, too. They had left her alone most of the morning, and Eliwys had only stayed long enough to smear on the foul-smelling ointment. And have me make improper advances toward Gawyn, Kivrin thought.

Kivrin tried not to worry about what Agnes had told her or why the antivirals hadn’t worked or how far the drop was, and to concentrate on getting her strength back. No one came in all afternoon, and she practiced sitting up and putting her feet over the side of the bed. When Maisry came with a rushlight to help her to the chamberpot, she was able to walk back to the bed by herself.

It grew colder in the night, and when Agnes came to see her in the morning, she was wearing a red cloak and hood of very thick wool and white fur mittens. “Would you like to see my silver buckle? Sir Bloet gave it me. I will bring it on the morrow. I cannot come today, for we go to cut the Yule log.”

“The Yule log?” Kivrin said, alarmed. The ceremonial log had traditionally been cut on the twenty-fourth, and this was only the seventeenth. Had she misunderstood Lady Imeyne?

“Aye,” Agnes said. “At home we do not go till Christmas Eve, but it is like to storm, and Grandmother would have us ride out to fetch it while it is yet fine weather.”

Like to storm, Kivrin thought. How would she recognize the drop if it snowed? The wagon and her boxes were still there, but if it snowed more than a few inches she would never recognize the road.

“Does everyone go to fetch the Yule log?” Kivrin asked.

“Nay. Father Roche called Mother to tend a sick cottar.”

That explained why Imeyne was playing the tyrant, bullying Maisry and the steward and accusing Kivrin of adultery. “Does your grandmother go with you?”

“Aye,” she said. “I will ride my pony.”

“Does Rosemund go?”

“Aye.”

“And the steward?”

“Aye,” she said impatiently. “All the village goes.”

“Does Gawyn?”

“Nay,” she said, as if that were self-evident. “I must go out to the stable and bid Blackie farewell.” She ran off.

Lady Imeyne was going, and the steward, and Lady Eliwys was somewhere nursing a peasant who was ill. And Gawyn, for some reason that was obvious to Agnes but not to her, wasn’t. Perhaps he had gone with Eliwys. But if he hadn’t, if he were staying here to guard the manor, she could talk to him alone.

Maisry was obviously going. When she brought Kivrin’s breakfast she was wearing a rough brown poncho and had ragged strips of cloth wrapped around her legs. She helped Kivrin to the chamberpot, carried it out and brought up a brazier full of hot coals, moving with more speed and initiative than Kivrin had seen before.