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Sybil searched for some sign of Wilfrid, but saw nothing. “We’ll look for him in the church.” Moving cautiously, she made her way forward. When they found the entryway they stepped inside.

Inside the church an altar light flickered, revealing only a deserted hall. “She’s here” whispered Alfric, pointing to the image of Saint Elfleda on the wall. “But where’s the monk? Is there anywhere else we can look?” asked Alfric.

After a moment Sybil said, “Yes.”

“Where?”

“The cemetery.” Sybil, feeling uneasy, said, “I think it best that you stay here.”

“Why?”

“I’m only going to look. The book will be safer here with you.”

“Will you be gone long?”

“No. Sit yourself near the altar.”

Sybil placed the Book Without Words upon his knees. “Best not open it,” she said.

“I won’t.”

Sybil started to go, only to look back at Alfric. The boy’s face was full of misery. She reached into her purse and felt for the stone. “You must to do something for me,” she said.

“Please, Mistress, anything.”

“It’s the stone,” she said, drawing it from her purse. “Hold it and protect it. It will be safer with you, too.”

“But … what might happen?”

“I don’t know. But if something does …”

“Yes?”

“Get the stone to Odo,” said Sybil. “If you can.” She put it into his hand and folded his small fingers over it. “Hold it tightly,” she said.

The boy squeezed his hand shut. “I promise,” he said.

“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” said Sybil. She left the church through the same door they had entered.

9

Once outside, Sybil headed around to the back of the church. With care, she edged along the perimeter of the low slate wall that bordered the cemetery. Finding a gap, she passed on through, then stopped to gaze upon the dismal scene. The old cemetery was rank with decay, choked with wilted and twisted weeds. Over it the fog rose and fell like a restless, inland sea, so that the burial markers looked like the fingers of drowning men and women. The only visible life was clumps of lichens, which glowed and winked in the dank and dismal air with a melancholy, phosphorescent hue—like dying embers.

Not knowing where else to go, she wandered among the stones, now and again stumbling and tripping on the slippery graveyard mire. Once, she caught sight of something gleaming—a wee bit of pallid, broken bone.

When the fog lifted briefly, she saw a shape distinct from stone. She gazed at it intently, gradually realizing it was the shape of a man. Brother Wilfrid, she told herself. Wanting to feel relief, but unsure if she should, she edged forward. The fog shifted. She could see. It was Thorston.

10

Inside the church, Alfric sat motionless with the Book Without Words resting heavily on his knees. The church’s emptiness unsettled him, making him almost afraid to breathe. It did not help that the large eyes of Saint Elfleda seemed to fix upon him. He squeezed his hands over the stone so tightly his fingers ached.

To ease the pain he relaxed his hands and let his fingers uncurl. The stone lay in his palm, glowing. A sweet, springlike smell suffused the air. Alfric’s head teemed with images of bright flowers, fields of wheat, and leafy trees. He recollected something he had seen in the book: a magic for making food. Just to think of it made his mouth water; his stomach churned. He began to open the book, only to be held by a sound.

Someone had entered the church. The images in his head vanished. His hands clapped tightly over the stone and book. He strained to see into the darkness.

“Sybil?” Alfric called. “Is that … you?”

Alfric strained to see. Gradually, a figure emerged out of the darkness. It was Brother Wilfrid. Alfric sprang to his feet.

11

The monk halted before him. His green-hued eyes seemed to glow. The strands of his pale hair stirred. “Do you have the book?” he asked.

“I won’t betray her!” cried Alfric. “I won’t!”

“I must have it,” said Brother Wilfrid. “It’s what you agreed to get for me.” He sniffed. “You have the stone too, don’t you?”

Alfric nodded dumbly.

Wilfrid extended his