small disarming sneeze, and it rubbed its nose with one paw. Then it came over to the desk where we were sitting, I on one side, the abbess on the other. It nudged her with its snout, a single powerful push, and she let her fingers slip through the thick gray-white fur of its neck for a moment. Then the wolf continued around the desk and approached me.
Its eyes were almost white. The pupils were like shiny black buttons in the middle of irises pale as miniature moons, and it stared at me without blinking, without lowering its gaze. I was distantly aware that I had stopped breathing, just as most of my thought processes had ceased.
It studied me in this way for an endless moment, and it was entirely impossible for me to look away. When the wolf finally blinked and lowered its head, its nose briefly touched my hand. It was not a peremptory poke like the one it had given Mother Filippa, just a fleeting and damp touch. A greeting, a marking of invisible lines. Yawning once more, it lumbered back to its hearthrug and lay down.
“I think he likes you,” said Mother Filippa. “Very well. The Commissioner would presumably not have sent you unless he felt you were up to the task.”
I was left with a clear impression that the wolf’s judgment was more important than that of the Commissioner.
In 1524 the convent had been remote and secluded, surrounded by deep forests. This probably played a part when Black Pierre and his mercenaries had found themselves so harassed by the local wolf packs that they gave up their attempts to seize the convent and the citizens of Varonne who had sought refuge there. These days, the outskirts of Varbourg could be glimpsed between the hills; farming and human habitation had replaced much of the original wilderness, and apple orchards and wide sprouting fields smelling of spring and rain surrounded the convent walls. The forest was still there, a low dark shadow on the edge of the open landscape, but only as a distant reminder of another, less protected time. The convent was no longer a fortress, crouched behind moats and buttresses, but was now reminiscent of a cross between a country estate and a village. The convent chapel and the cloister itself were still sequestered from the world by walls and iron gates, but the school and the old hospital, the cider barn, the stables, the orphanage, and the almshouse lay along tidy lanes bordered by budding chestnut trees, with some fifty cottages spread a little more haphazardly in the shadow of the solid institutional buildings. All in all, just over a thousand people lived here, and I sincerely hoped that it would not be necessary to examine everyone. It depended entirely on what we found among those who had been in close contact with Cecile.
Two hospital sisters, who really should have been having a well-deserved rest after their night shift, had been woken up and agreed to help with the initial examinations. One, Sister Marie-Claire, was young and energetic and apparently found it easy to brush off her sleepiness; the other, Sister Agnes, showed the strain of her night’s work more clearly, and every other move was accompanied by a soft, unconscious, “Oh dear. Oh dear.”
The examination was simple. With the aid of a bright light and a loupe, the nostrils and oral cavity were studied for signs of mites,and samples from the mucous membrane were collected with the aid of a pipette, to be examined later under the microscope. Fortunately, one wing of the school had a coal-powered generator that provided electricity to the entire first floor, and it was possible to find three lamps suitable to our purpose. I started by examining both Sister Marie-Claire and Sister Agnes, partly to demonstrate how it was done and partly to make sure that neither was carrying the infection.
“As you can see, it is a simple procedure,” I said to Mother Filippa, who had accompanied us to observe events.
She smiled. “Nothing is simple when you are dealing with
Its eyes were almost white. The pupils were like shiny black buttons in the middle of irises pale as miniature moons, and it stared at me without blinking, without lowering its gaze. I was distantly aware that I had stopped breathing, just as most of my thought processes had ceased.
It studied me in this way for an endless moment, and it was entirely impossible for me to look away. When the wolf finally blinked and lowered its head, its nose briefly touched my hand. It was not a peremptory poke like the one it had given Mother Filippa, just a fleeting and damp touch. A greeting, a marking of invisible lines. Yawning once more, it lumbered back to its hearthrug and lay down.
“I think he likes you,” said Mother Filippa. “Very well. The Commissioner would presumably not have sent you unless he felt you were up to the task.”
I was left with a clear impression that the wolf’s judgment was more important than that of the Commissioner.
In 1524 the convent had been remote and secluded, surrounded by deep forests. This probably played a part when Black Pierre and his mercenaries had found themselves so harassed by the local wolf packs that they gave up their attempts to seize the convent and the citizens of Varonne who had sought refuge there. These days, the outskirts of Varbourg could be glimpsed between the hills; farming and human habitation had replaced much of the original wilderness, and apple orchards and wide sprouting fields smelling of spring and rain surrounded the convent walls. The forest was still there, a low dark shadow on the edge of the open landscape, but only as a distant reminder of another, less protected time. The convent was no longer a fortress, crouched behind moats and buttresses, but was now reminiscent of a cross between a country estate and a village. The convent chapel and the cloister itself were still sequestered from the world by walls and iron gates, but the school and the old hospital, the cider barn, the stables, the orphanage, and the almshouse lay along tidy lanes bordered by budding chestnut trees, with some fifty cottages spread a little more haphazardly in the shadow of the solid institutional buildings. All in all, just over a thousand people lived here, and I sincerely hoped that it would not be necessary to examine everyone. It depended entirely on what we found among those who had been in close contact with Cecile.
Two hospital sisters, who really should have been having a well-deserved rest after their night shift, had been woken up and agreed to help with the initial examinations. One, Sister Marie-Claire, was young and energetic and apparently found it easy to brush off her sleepiness; the other, Sister Agnes, showed the strain of her night’s work more clearly, and every other move was accompanied by a soft, unconscious, “Oh dear. Oh dear.”
The examination was simple. With the aid of a bright light and a loupe, the nostrils and oral cavity were studied for signs of mites,and samples from the mucous membrane were collected with the aid of a pipette, to be examined later under the microscope. Fortunately, one wing of the school had a coal-powered generator that provided electricity to the entire first floor, and it was possible to find three lamps suitable to our purpose. I started by examining both Sister Marie-Claire and Sister Agnes, partly to demonstrate how it was done and partly to make sure that neither was carrying the infection.
“As you can see, it is a simple procedure,” I said to Mother Filippa, who had accompanied us to observe events.
She smiled. “Nothing is simple when you are dealing with
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