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uncomfortably fast. Had it been painted as a warning? If it had, then this wasn’t the first time its presence had been felt since the abbey had been built.
    â€œSomeone else knew about the angel,” William said. He told the fay about the figure painted on the chapel ceiling.
    Shadlok’s expression was grim as he listened.
    William remembered the fox blood on the causeway and the bundle of oak twigs, and he shivered. “I think . . . Dame Alys might still be worshipping it.” He quickly told Shadlok what he had found by the abbey gates and how he had seen Dame Alys in Weforde, coming from the forest and carrying a bloodstained sack; he was certain now the dark stains had been blood. And if he’d looked inside that sack, he was sure he’d have found the body of a fox.
    â€œShe must be making blood sacrifices to help the angel become strong again,” Shadlok said.
    William looked at the church, looming over the abbey and fields like a huge gray beast. “If the angel is in the church, then why did I see it in Dame Alys’s house?” he asked.
    â€œWhat you saw was merely a shadow of the creature, an echo,” Shadlok said, “not the angel itself. If she is sacrificing animals to it, then some part of it is being drawn to her.”
    â€œBut why is the angel stirring now ?” William asked. “What does it want?”
    â€œThat,” Shadlok said grimly, turning back to his work, “is something I fear we will soon be finding out.”
    William and Shadlok worked on until the daylight began to fade. The bell for compline had been rung long since, and the monks were in the cloister, having their bedtime drinks. William carried the shovels and rake back to the tool shed, then hauled water from the well to wash his face and hands. He took his time, not wanting to run into Brother Martin in the kitchen. When at last he went indoors, the kitchen was cold and dark. A scant few embers glowed on the hearth, and William knelt beside them, shivering inside his damp and muddy clothes, coaxing them back to life with a few branches from the wood basket.
    A small supper had been left on the table for him. There was a piece of bread and a shriveled apple and half a cup of small beer: not nearly enough food to fill his belly after a hard day’s work in the garden, but better than nothing. He sat by the hearth to eat it. He warmed the beer with a hot poker and sipped it slowly.
    Later, as he huddled on his mattress, wrapped in his blanket, he tried hard not to think about the fallen angel. It was one thing talking to Shadlok about it out in the full light of day, but now, when darkness seemed to ooze from the stone walls and prowl around his bed, he felt very alone and defenseless. He pulled the blanket up to his ears and wished the hob was with him, fidgeting and snoring, a warm and solid little presence.
    As he tried to settle more comfortably, he felt the holey stone dig into his chest. He took it off and hid it under his mattress. Nothing on earth would persuade him to look through the hole tonight.

C HAPTER
TEN

    W illiam woke with a start. A deep, earth-trembling rumble shook the kitchen. Pots rattled against each other, knives and ladles clattered on their hooks, and the pile of fire logs collapsed and rolled across the floor. William’s heart pounded as he pushed aside his blanket and clambered to his feet. His sleepy mind struggled to make sense of the terrible thunder of falling stone and timbers and the wild clang of bells. The sound shook the air and juddered through his bones.
    It’s the tower , he thought, flinching in terror and half expecting the kitchen to come crashing down around him. He felt his way to the door, stubbing his foot painfully against a log on the way. Outside, the gray light of dawn showed between the arches of the cloister alley. A misty drizzle was falling, and there was a gritty feel to the air. A dead silence hung over the abbey,