ringing in the air, and there was a little sound, like an intaken breath or the shuffle of a foot on soft dirt, very close.
Kivrin tensed, hoping the involuntary movement didn't show through her concealing cloak, and waited, but there were no footsteps or voices. And no birds. There was someone, or something, standing over her. She was sure of it. She could hear its breathing, feel its breath on her. It stood there for a long time, not moving. After what seemed like an endless space of time, Kivrin realized she was holding her own breath and let it out slowly. She listened, but now she couldn't hear anything over the throbbing of her own pulse. She took a deep, sighing breath, and moaned.
Nothing. Whatever it was didn't move, didn't make a sound, and Mr. Dunworthy had been right: pretending to be unconscious was no way to come into a century where wolves still prowled the forests. And bears. The birds abruptly began to sing again, which meant either it was not a wolf or the wolf had gone away. Kivrin went through the ritual of listening again, and opened her eyes.
She couldn't see anything but her sleeve, which was against her nose, but just the act of opening her eyes made her head ache worse. She closed her eyes, whimpered, and stirred, moving her arm enough so that when she opened her eyes again she would be able to see something. She moaned again and fluttered her eyes open.
There was no one standing over her, and it wasn't the middle of the night. The sky overhead through the tangled branches of the trees was a pale grayish-blue. She sat up and looked around.
Almost the first thing Mr. Dunworthy had said to her that first time she had told him she wanted to go to the Middle Ages was, "They were filthy and disease-ridden, the muckhole of history, and the sooner you get rid of any fairy-tale notions you have about them, the better."
And he was right. Of course he was right. But here she was, in a fairy wood. She and the wagon and all the rest of it had come through in a little open space too small and shadowed to be called a glade. Tall, thick trees arched above and over it.
She was lying under an oak tree. She could see a few scalloped leaves in the bare branches high above. The oak was full of nests, though the birds had stopped again, traumatized by her movement. The underbrush was thick, a mat of dead leaves and dry weeds that should have been soft but wasn't. The hard thing Kivrin had been lying on was the cap of an acorn. White mushrooms spotted with red clustered near the gnarled roots of the oak tree. They, and everything else in the little glade -- the tree trunks, the wagon, the ivy -- glittered with the frosty condensation of the halo.
It was obvious that no one had been here, had ever been here, and equally obvious that this wasn't the Oxford-Bath road and that no traveller was going to happen along in 1.6 hours. Or ever. The mediaeval maps they'd used to determine the site of the drop had apparently been as inaccurate as Mr. Dunworthy'd said they were. The road was obviously further north than the maps had indicated, and she was south of it, in Wychwood Forest.
"Ascertain your exact spatial and temporal location immediately," Dr. Gilchrist had said. She wondered how she was supposed to do that -- ask the birds? They were too far above her for her to see what species they were, and the mass extinctions hadn't started until the 1970's. Short of them being passenger pigeons or dodoes, their presence wouldn't point to any particular time or place, anyway.
She started to sit up, and the birds exploded into a wild flurry of flapping wings. She stayed still until the noise subsided and then rose to her knees. The flapping started all over again. She clasped her hands, pressing the flesh of her palms together and closing her eyes so if the traveller who was supposed to find her happened by, it would look like she was praying.
"I'm here," she said and then stopped. If she reported that she had landed in the
Kivrin tensed, hoping the involuntary movement didn't show through her concealing cloak, and waited, but there were no footsteps or voices. And no birds. There was someone, or something, standing over her. She was sure of it. She could hear its breathing, feel its breath on her. It stood there for a long time, not moving. After what seemed like an endless space of time, Kivrin realized she was holding her own breath and let it out slowly. She listened, but now she couldn't hear anything over the throbbing of her own pulse. She took a deep, sighing breath, and moaned.
Nothing. Whatever it was didn't move, didn't make a sound, and Mr. Dunworthy had been right: pretending to be unconscious was no way to come into a century where wolves still prowled the forests. And bears. The birds abruptly began to sing again, which meant either it was not a wolf or the wolf had gone away. Kivrin went through the ritual of listening again, and opened her eyes.
She couldn't see anything but her sleeve, which was against her nose, but just the act of opening her eyes made her head ache worse. She closed her eyes, whimpered, and stirred, moving her arm enough so that when she opened her eyes again she would be able to see something. She moaned again and fluttered her eyes open.
There was no one standing over her, and it wasn't the middle of the night. The sky overhead through the tangled branches of the trees was a pale grayish-blue. She sat up and looked around.
Almost the first thing Mr. Dunworthy had said to her that first time she had told him she wanted to go to the Middle Ages was, "They were filthy and disease-ridden, the muckhole of history, and the sooner you get rid of any fairy-tale notions you have about them, the better."
And he was right. Of course he was right. But here she was, in a fairy wood. She and the wagon and all the rest of it had come through in a little open space too small and shadowed to be called a glade. Tall, thick trees arched above and over it.
She was lying under an oak tree. She could see a few scalloped leaves in the bare branches high above. The oak was full of nests, though the birds had stopped again, traumatized by her movement. The underbrush was thick, a mat of dead leaves and dry weeds that should have been soft but wasn't. The hard thing Kivrin had been lying on was the cap of an acorn. White mushrooms spotted with red clustered near the gnarled roots of the oak tree. They, and everything else in the little glade -- the tree trunks, the wagon, the ivy -- glittered with the frosty condensation of the halo.
It was obvious that no one had been here, had ever been here, and equally obvious that this wasn't the Oxford-Bath road and that no traveller was going to happen along in 1.6 hours. Or ever. The mediaeval maps they'd used to determine the site of the drop had apparently been as inaccurate as Mr. Dunworthy'd said they were. The road was obviously further north than the maps had indicated, and she was south of it, in Wychwood Forest.
"Ascertain your exact spatial and temporal location immediately," Dr. Gilchrist had said. She wondered how she was supposed to do that -- ask the birds? They were too far above her for her to see what species they were, and the mass extinctions hadn't started until the 1970's. Short of them being passenger pigeons or dodoes, their presence wouldn't point to any particular time or place, anyway.
She started to sit up, and the birds exploded into a wild flurry of flapping wings. She stayed still until the noise subsided and then rose to her knees. The flapping started all over again. She clasped her hands, pressing the flesh of her palms together and closing her eyes so if the traveller who was supposed to find her happened by, it would look like she was praying.
"I'm here," she said and then stopped. If she reported that she had landed in the
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