Katherine stumbles across the garth and out across the yard to the almonry. But here the door is locked. She hammers and pulls at the handles. There is no give. She shouts. There is no one there.

She retraces her steps. The cloister is empty and the Prioress and Joan have gone. Another sister sits in her carrel poring over a page. Katherine makes her start.

‘Sister, have you seen the infirmarian?’

‘She goes to the library after Mass,’ the sister tells her.

The library is on the other side of the cloister, up a small flight of steps above a storeroom. Another room Katherine has never visited. The infirmarian is there, standing at the lectern over a large book.

‘Sister Meredith,’ Katherine breathes. ‘Come. Sister Alice is alive.’

The infirmarian looks puzzled.

‘I am glad to hear it, Sister,’ she says.

‘Then come. She needs you.’

Sister Meredith leaves the book and follows Katherine out of the library and down the stairs. Katherine holds the door for her at the bottom and guides her across the garth.

‘Where are we going?’ she asks.

‘The infirmary, of course.’

‘What is Alice doing there?’

‘She has been attacked. I thought you would have known?’

Something is wrong. The old woman mutters as they make their way up the steps to the infirmary. The Prioress and Sister Joan are there already, beside Alice. When the door opens they both step away.

Something inside Katherine goes cold.

Sister Meredith hurries past them and kneels by Alice. Her hands play over the girl’s face and neck. Alice’s eyes are closed again and her hair is messed up on the sheet behind her head. Sister Meredith fetches a small copper bowl from her table, places it on Alice’s chest and pours in water from an earthenware jug. Then she stops to watch. After a moment she turns to Katherine.

‘But she is dead?’ she says.

The Prioress and Sister Joan are both staring at her.

The infirmarian leans forward and opens one of Alice’s eyelids.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You see? These marks? A sure sign that she died unable to breathe.’

But Katherine is not looking at Alice. She is staring at the long scratch on the side of Sister Joan’s neck.

‘Your neck,’ she says.

Joan touches the scratch and then looks at the bloodied tips of her fingers. She smiles nervously, sharp teeth on her thin lips, a furtive expression.