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the floor. And felt guilty because he grieved. A Carthusian was supposed to shut out all worldly distractions. God alone mattered. The mouse had been a temptation that he should have resisted. Now God was punishing him, teaching him why he shouldn't become infatuated with transitory creatures.
    Death.
    Drew shuddered. No. I wouldn't change anything.
    The mouse was fun to have around. I'm glad I took care of it.
    His eyes stung, making him blink repeatedly as he stared down at his lifeless friend. Terrible thoughts occurred to him. What should he do with the body? For sure, he wasn't going to have a custodian brother dispose of it, perhaps even dump it in the trash. The mouse deserved better. The dignity of burial.
    But where? Through misted vision, he glanced toward his workroom window. Sunset had turned to dusk, casting his garden wall into shadow.
    A cedar bush grew in a corner of the wall. Yes, Drew thought. He'd bury Stuart Little beneath the shrub. An evergreen, it lived all year. Even in winter, it's color would be a reminder.
    His throat felt swollen, aching each time he swallowed. Thirsty, he reached for his cup of water, raised it toward his lips, glanced past it toward the thick slab of bread in his bowl.
    And paused.
    His spine began to tingle.
    He peered down at the bread on the floor, the chunk he'd thrown to Stuart Little. He stared at the water in the cup he held. And slowly, cautiously, making sure that no liquid spilled over the top, he eased the container back down on the table. Reflexively he wiped his hands on the front of his robe.
    No, he thought. It couldn't be.
    But what if you're not imagining?
    His suspicion filled him with shame. In his sixth stern year of penance, did he still retain the habit of thinking as he had in his former life? Had his training been that effective? Were his instincts that resistant to change?
    But just supposing. You know, for the sake of argument. What kind might it be? Did it kill on contact?
    Tensing, he stared at his hands. No, he'd touched the mouse. And the bread. Just a minute ago. But the mouse had died quickly. In the time Drew had taken to close his eyes and say grace. If it's poison and it kills on contact, even with my greater size, I ought to be dead now, too.
    He breathed.
    All right, then, it has to be ingested.
    (You've got to stop thinking this way.)
    And it's powerful. Almost instantaneous.
    Assuming it's poison.
    Of course, just assuming. After all, it's still quite possible that Stuart Little died from natural causes.
    (But what would you have thought six years ago?)
    He struggled to repress his terrible memories. No. God's testing me again. He's using this death to learn if I've truly purged myself. A man of detachment would never think like this.
    (But in the old days...
    Yes?
    You thought this way all the time.)
    He narrowed his vision till all he saw was the unmoving mouse on the floor. Slowly, frowning so hard he felt the beginnings of a headache, he raised his eyes toward the serving hatch beside his door.
    The hatch was closed. But beyond it was a corridor.
    (No. It makes no sense. Not here, not now! Who? Why?)
    Besides, he was merely guessing. The only way to know for sure if the bread had been poisoned was to...
    Taste it? Hardly.
    Have it tested? That would take too long.
    But there was another way. He could investigate the monastery. He stiffened with doubt. The notion repelled him.
    But under the circumstances...
    He stared at the door. In the six years he'd been here, he'd left his quarters seldom, only to convene with the other monks for mandatory communal rituals. Those ventures outside had been keenly disturbing to him, nerve-racking intrusions on his peace of mind.
    But under the circumstances...
    He wiped his sweaty lip. His years of disciplined regimen told him to wait a short while longer until he normally left for vespers. Yes. The decision calmed him. Avoiding extremes, it appealed to his common sense.
    Dusk deepened, shifting to