Ysabel Read Free Page A

the altar. Not much to see. Some fat white candles hadburned down, none were burning now. People weren’t allowed inside this morning: Edward Marriner was at work out front.
    Ned crossed in front of the altar and worked his way back down the other side. This aisle was from 1695, the map told him. He stopped to get his bearings: this would be the north side, the cloister was south, his father was shooting the west facade. For no good reason it made him feel better to work that out.
    This was a shorter nave, hit a wall partway down. Ned found himself back in the main section, looking up at a stained-glass window. He found another bench near the last side chapel by the bell tower. Saint-Catherine’s, the brochure advised; it had been the university’s chapel.
    Ned imagined students hurrying here to confession five hundred years ago, then back across the road to lectures. What did they wear to school in those days? He popped in his buds again, dialing Pearl Jam on the wheel.
    He was in the south of France. Well, forgive him for not doing cartwheels. His father would be shooting like a madman (his own word) from now to the middle of June. The photographs were for a big-deal book next Christmas. Edward Marriner: Images of Provence , accompanying a text by Oliver Lee. Oliver Lee was from London but had lived down here for the last thirty years, writing (Melanie had told him all this) six novels, including some prize-winners. Star English writer, star Canadian photographer, star French scenery. Big-deal book.
    Ned’s mother was in the Sudan.
    The reports were of serious fighting again, north of Darfur. She was almost certainly there, he thought, leaning back on the bench, closing his eyes, trying to let the music envelop him. Angry music. Grunge.
    Pearl Jam finished, Alanis Morissette came up next on his shuffle. The deal was, his mother would phone them here every second evening. That, Ned thought bitterly, was going to for sure keep her safe.
    Doctors Without Borders was supposed to be respected and acknowledged everywhere, but they weren’t always, not any more. The world had changed. Places like Iraq had proven that, and the Sudan was real far from being the smartest place on earth to be right now.
    He pulled off the buds again. Alanis complained a lot, he decided, for a girl from the Ottawa Valley who absolutely had it made.
    “Gregorian chants?” someone asked.
    Ned jerked sideways along the bench, turning his head quickly. “What the—”
    “Sorry! Did I scare you?”
    “Hell, yes!” he snapped. “What do you think?”
    He stood up. It was a girl, he saw.
    She looked apologetic for a second, then grinned. She clasped her hands in front of her. “What have you to fear in this holy place, my child? What sins lie heavy on your heart?”
    “I’ll think of something,” he said.
    She laughed.
    She looked to be about his own age, dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans, Doc Martens, a small green backpack. Tall, thin, freckles, American accent. Light brown hair to her shoulders.
    “Murder? T. S. Eliot wrote a play about that,” she said.
    Ned made a face. Urk. One of those. “I know, Murder in the Cathedral . We’re supposed to study it next year.”
    She grinned again. “I’m geeky that way. What can I say? Isn’t this place amazing?”
    “You think? I think it’s a mess.”
    “But that’s what’s cool! Walk twenty steps and you go five hundred years. Have you seen the baptistry? This place drips with history.”
    Ned held out an open palm and looked up, as if to check for dripping water. “You are a geek, aren’t you?”
    “Can’t tease if I admitted it. Cheap shot.”
    She was kind of pretty, in a skinny-dancer way.
    Ned shrugged. “What’s the baptistry?”
    “The round part, by the front doors.”
    “Wait a sec.” Something occurred to him. “How’d you get in? The place is closed for two hours.”
    “I saw. Someone’s taking photos outside. Probably a brochure.”
    “No.” He