Chapter One:

"Yes, a cappuccino," Jen said, as the student behind the counter rang up her coffee order. She handed the girl her Cromwell ID card, watching as her balance rang up - 5.35. She'd need to fill up her card later to do laundry… but she was so tired… she sipped her coffee, hoping the shot of espresso would revive her, and wandered back to her desk deep in the bowels of Laudian Library.

Her steps led her, almost unconsciously, to Rosamund’s desk, tucked behind the elevator. A notebook and thermos of coffee were balanced precariously on top of a stack of books. Pens and loose-leaf were scattered everywhere, but Rosamund herself was nowhere to be found.

"Jen!"

Jen jumped, spilling coffee down her arm. She yelped.

Rosamund appeared behind her, bearing an armful of books on medieval philosophy. Like most students in the twelfth week of the semester, Rosamund was showing signs of strain; her dark eyes were bruised with exhaustion. Still, she perked up when she saw Jen, and offered her a napkin. "Is your arm all right? You're not burned, are you?"

"Nope. It's cool." Jen crumpled the napkin, tossing it in the garbage can already brimming with coffee-cups, and tried to hide a smile. Jen always liked to tease Rosamund about not outgrowing her private school uniform, and today was vintage Rosamund: plaid headband, argyle socks, and, best of all, a tan cardigan with frolicking penguins. "Love the sweater."

"Me too. Penguins are great." Rosamund unzipped her tote bag and stuffed her notebooks in it. "Ready for class with Burckhardt?"

"Yep," Jen said. "We had Gothic Cathedral day on Monday. Burckhardt was jumping around so much, I thought he'd take flight for sure."

Rosamund chuckled. Her advisor, Jacob Burckhardt, began his scholarly life as an art historian, and had not lost his enthusiasm for Gothic architecture after all those years. "I've got my Western Civ kiddies myself. Let me pack up and we can head out… have you seen my Rise of Medieval Universities? I thought I left it on the desk."

"Oh, it's under the chair." Jen picked it up. Charles Homer Haskins was written across the flyleaf in a bold, but faded hand. "It's autographed! Did Burckhardt give you this?"

Rosamund laughed. “No. Fogarty found it in a used bookstore in Harvard Square. It was just 10 bucks! Seriously, they didn't have a clue what a hot property they had on their hands. And he found this for me, too." She held up a massive, ancient book with flaking leather binding. "My very own copy of Gratian's Decretals."

"Awww. That's love, isn't it?"

"Hey, it's fascinating. Did you know you could try heretics in three jurisdictions at once?"

"You're a freak."

Rosamund smiled. "I try. I really do. Shall we mosey?"

Burckhardt was waiting outside his lecture-hall in the vast and echoing Humanities & Social Sciences complex, talking to the modern French historian. He broke off when he saw Rosamund and Jen approaching. "And here comes my spawn…" he looked at his watch. "Rosamunda, don't you have a discussion section now?"

"Upstairs. The kids never show up on time anyway. Can I talk to you later about Herlihy’s Black Death book?”

"Sure," Burckhardt said. "Why don't you stop by my office after class? I'll bring coffee."

"Sounds great. Medieval universities, here I come…"

"Try not to overwhelm them with your enthusiasm."

Rosamund smiled. "I can't make any promises, professor." The green door swung shut behind her.

All the cool kids sat in the back, so that's what Jen did. Burckhardt's teaching assistant, Tommy, had fallen asleep in his chair, his curly brown head buried in his arm. Tommy studied Reformation Germany, somehow without taking sides. But that was part of his mystique. He was the student Jen yearned to be, yet knew she never could – phenomenally driven, and utterly wedded to his subject. An overachiever in every aspect of his life.

Jen poked Tommy awake.

He shook himself, and blinked. "Oh. Hi, Jen. Is class starting?"

"Pretty soon. Late night?"

"Well, you know me.” He smiled, rather sheepishly, and yawned. "Man, I need some sleep."

"Don't we all." Jen flipped through her notebook, found a clean sheet, and began to jot down the notes that Burckhardt, a technology-phobe, had written in bright yellow chalk on the board. Scholasticism and Courtly Love. An odd pairing, but that was Burckhardt for you. Rosamund, too. Jen set down her pen and yawned. Had Rosamund been this goofy when she came to Cromwell, or had Burckhardt's zaniness rubbed off on her? The world might never know…

Jen blinked, jolted from her day-dream at a sudden sound, like a car backfiring, but close, too close… And again. She jumped; Burckhardt paused in the middle of his lecture, set down his notes, and pulled a key out of his breast-pocket. He locked the classroom door - locking them in - and stared at the wavy glass window in the door for a moment. "Can I have your chair, Tommy?"

Tommy pushed his chair and Jen’s to the front, and helped Burckhardt barricade the door. He and Jen then took up two empty desks by the window.

The students by now had begun whispering nervously.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Burckhardt said, as another shot rang out. "We've all had substantial training in these sorts of situations. We ask that you please remain calm, take out your notebooks, and we can go on with the lecture. Let us cast ourselves back to medieval Paris once more…."

"I can't believe he's doing this," Jen whispered to Tommy. "There's some gunman loose in the building, and he's lecturing?"

"What would you do?"

"Good point." Jen turned her page, scribbling, Aristotle returns to the West.

Several minutes later, there was a knock at the door; she jumped, smearing ink across her page.

"Police!" a gruff voice shouted through the door.

Burckhardt shouted, "Who is it?"

“Lieutenant Smythers, with the Chambersville police. We've come to escort you and your students out of the building."

Jen dropped her notebook and pen in her bag, and sighed with relief.

"Please leave everything here, and follow Collinson and myself," the policeman said.

"But my student, Rosamund, she's teaching upstairs, in the four hundred wing - " Burckhardt said.

"We're evacuating the building floor by floor. There is an advance SWAT team ahead of us. Come along."

Jen and Tommy rose from their seats, following Burckhardt, the policemen, and the students down a rickety back stairs. They walked past a row of police-cars and ambulances, onto the quad, now yellowed in winter. Strangely, there were no shots. It was eerily silent.

"Do you think he's shot himself?" Jen whispered to Tommy. "I've heard they tend to do it."

"Maybe." Tommy, ever the gentleman, took Jen by the arm, steering her around a flock of reporters. "Let’s find Burckhardt and wait with him. Rosamund will find him first, I bet."

They circled the police-cars, but couldn’t find Burckhardt. Whom they did find, talking to one of the policeman, was a white-robed friar with a briefcase. Jen blinked; she had seen pictures of friars in textbooks, mostly in reference to the Spanish Inquisition, but had never actually seen one in real life. Wait, scratch that. She had seen one – with Rosamund in Starbucks last month. Rosamund had grabbed a table near the window, and flagged Jen down when she wandered in around 8 AM, still half-asleep, for her morning latte. Jen had placed her order and joined Rosamund when a friar approached with two cups of coffee. Rosamund had introduced them; what was his name again?

The policeman crossed his arms. "For the fifth time, Father -"

“People are dying, Sam -"

"And you'll die too, and what good would that do us? You'll wait with the rest of the civilians. We'll let you know when it's safe to go in."

The friar sat on the step, and set his briefcase beside him. "Tommy! And…" he stared at Jen. “Sorry, I’ve got a terrible memory for names. Bad in my line of work. Rosamund introduced us, didn’t she?”

"Yes. My name’s Jen. Jen Cross.”

"Very pleased to meet you again," he said. "Are you two waiting for someone?"

"Yes,” Tommy said. “Rosamund hasn't come out yet.”

Father Lucas’ face fell. "Where does she teach?"

"On the fourth floor,” Tommy said. “They haven't let them out yet."

"They're doing all they can. So we should do all we can," Father Lucas said. "Pray."

Jen sat down beside them in silence, staring across the quad as the two men beside her prayed the Hail Mary over and over again. It was very strange - she had always thought of religion as part of history, but here it was, right in front of her: two men praying a thousand-year-old prayer. It was oddly soothing, repeated over and over again, like a mantra. Something you could hold onto, because it never changed - even when everything was falling apart around you…

Jason Chapman would always remember the next seven minutes of his life.

"We're gonna die," a freshman had said from the back row. "It'll be just like Virginia Tech… we're all gonna die."

"Not on my watch." His teaching assistant, Rosamund, had locked the door, and barricaded it with a few desks. Now the center of the room was oddly empty.

Rosamund sat down with the students, and they all held hands. They looked at each other awkwardly.

“Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya…” Jason said.

One of the worldly-wise sophomores laughed, and the whole class joined in. After the nervous laughter died down, Rosamund said, very seriously, more seriously than Jason had ever heard her speak before, "now, I'm sure the University wouldn’t want us sitting in a circle and praying, but I thought it would do us good. When no one listens to us, God listens to us. Would anyone like to begin with a prayer, or should I? I was thinking the Our Father. You guys know it, don't you? If you would rather pray something else, pray that. What matters is that you pray."

Jason closed his eyes, mouthing the Our Father under his breath; the students around him did likewise, repeating the words fast, wild, reckless. Rosamund halted them at the end of one thirteen second prayer, and began to say the words aloud slowly, carefully, meditating on each phrase.

Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven… Jason closed his eyes, and a strange sense of peace crept over him. Maybe they would be safe…

The doorknob rattled; someone banged on the door. Jason jumped; the girl next to him screamed.

"Who is it?" Rosamund shouted.

"Officer Leary. Chambersville Police," a man's muffled voice said.

Rosamund rose from the floor, brushing dust off her jeans. "I've got the door barricaded, can you wait a second?"

"Sure."

Rosamund walked to the window and craned her neck out; police were milling about below, shepherding students and faculty to the quad. "Everybody get up and pack up your bags. We're going out."

Jason rose, limp with relief, and helped Rosamund take the desks and the table down from the door, while his frat brother threw Jason’s notebook and baseball cap in his own backpack. Finally Rosamund unlocked the door, and opened it.

It was not the police. It was a nineteen-year-old student with a clip of ammunition and automatic rifle.

He smiled. "I hoped I'd find you. You're Rosamund Terling, aren't you? You're that crazy girl who believes in God."

"Out in the hallway, and leave your bags here." He waved his gun to Jason and the other terrified students. "And you - I want you to follow her. I want everyone to come out and watch what I'm going to do."

Jason looked at Rosamund; she nodded, set down her bag, and walked out into the hallway, the little heels of her flats clicking against the linoleum. The echoing tiles glistened; they had been washed that morning.

Jason shivered. The window was open at the end of the hall; he could see the President's house, and a wisp of cloud... where were the police, where were the sirens? Had the University forgotten them?

"Stand by the window, Rosamund. I want all you students in front of me. Against the wall. Do it."

Jason pressed his back against the cold tiles, staring at the gunman. He looked like any ordinary Cromwell student – scruffy and unshaven, hooded sweatshirt, dirty sneakers - except for his eyes. There was no spark in them. There was nothing at all.

"I've shot thirty-eight people today," the gunman said. "Are you impressed?"

Rosamund turned around and leaned back, bracing herself against the windowsill. She said nothing.

"But I've saved you for last. Do you know why?"

"No."

"Because I know all about you. I've heard about you. I took a class with you on the Nazis last year. Do you remember?"

"Yes," Rosamund said at last.

"You wondered what I was doing there, didn't you? I wanted to learn about them, you see. Because I admire them. And the first day I saw you in class, I knew you had to die. I've been waiting a whole semester to kill you. Did you enjoy your semester?"

Rosamund said nothing.

"Do you know why I'm going to kill you? Or actually, no. I might not kill you. Or maybe I will." He pointed the gun at Rosamund. "Why don't you decide for me? Tell me Jesus isn't real. Tell me Christianity is a hoax. Deny God, right in front of me."

Rosamund said nothing.

His hands started shaking. "Tell me God isn’t real or I'll shoot you. I'll shoot your students."

Rosamund said nothing.

He fired, once. The bullet pinged off the radiator.

"Say it or I'll shoot!"

This was the moment that Jason would remember for the rest of his life. He would always remember how the winter light poured in, how thin and white and cold it was, how the wind flirted with the dark strands of Rosamund's hair.

“I believe…” she said at last, “I believe in God, the Father the Almighty, creator of heaven and earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in being with the Father. Through him all things were made. For us men and for our salvation, he came down from heaven…”

The gunman stared, incredulous, for a moment, then shook himself and shot, once, twice, three, four, five times. Rosamund's knees buckled; she fell to the floor, leaving a smear of blood behind on the radiator. She did not move.

"Who else believes in God?"

A few girls whimpered; no one said anything.

The gunman elbowed past the students, and poked Rosamund with the toe of his sneaker. She moaned.

"What about your amazing God now?" he whispered. "Even if the paramedics got up here, you'd never make it to the hospital. You're dying, and nobody's gonna save you."

She said nothing.

He kicked her. “What about your God now?”

“Police! Everybody on the floor!"

Jason fell flat, hugging the linoleum as shots rang out, once, twice. The gunman screamed, and suddenly there was silence.

Jason peeked through his fingers. A few of the girls had started to cry; a few braver students were comforting each other. The SWAT team crept closer, stepping around the frightened students. "You can get up now. We've got him. Callahan will be taking you downstairs. Thank you for your cooperation."

Sergeant Callahan, a big, blonde woman, said, "is anyone injured, besides the girl by the window?"

"No, ma'am."

She blinked. "Matt, how's she looking?"

Matt gently rolled Rosamund over. Blood was bubbling on her lips; she gasped for breath. Her sweater and jeans were sodden with blood; the floor beneath her was slick with it. “Matt, SWAT Team,” he said briskly. He shouted over his shoulder, “Bring over the stretcher -"

"I don’t want a stretcher, I want - I want Father Lucas – “

"You're going to die if we leave you here, miss."

"I am dying – Father Lucas – in my bag, my cell phone – "

"All right." Matt took off his jacket, pressing it to Rosamund' s chest, trying to stop the bleeding. He scrambled in her bag, and pulled out her phone. He tossed it to Sergeant Callahan. "Call Father Lucas, whoever he is. Radio down, alert the trauma medic. Tell him we need blood, and lots of it."

Jen jumped, as Father Lucas’ pocket suddenly erupted with Eye of the Tiger. He pulled out his phone, and flipped it open. “Lucas Fiumicino speaking… I’m outside H & S. I followed the police cars to campus… I see. I’ll be right up.” He flipped his phone shut.

Tommy and Jen exchanged glances. “Rosamund?” Tommy asked.

"Wouldn’t say. Keep praying," Father Lucas grabbed his briefcase and burst into a run, barreling past a rather bemused guard at the entrance.

“Tommy! I’ve been looking for you for hours.”

Jen and Tommy turned around. Rosamund’s roommate stood behind them with an armful of exam booklets. Jen always thought Anne was an odd choice for Rosamund’s roommate. A resolute atheist, Anne studied the modern women’s movement; Rosamund studied medieval Christianity in all its glorious excess. Strangely enough, the two historians, the only women in their year, were devoted roommates, or, as Rosamund liked to say, roomies.

“I was giving an exam, can you believe it? I guess they’re all invalidated now.” Anne set the pile of booklets on the ground, and hugged Tommy tightly. “Thank God. Burckhardt’s been going nuts.” She looked around. “Where’s Rosamund?”

“She hasn’t come out yet,” Tommy said.

"Do you think she has her cell phone on?" Jen asked.

“Good thought.” Anne pulled out her cell, and tried to dial Rosamund's number. "I can't get through. Everybody's got to be calling." She looked up; waved the camera away. "Vultures. Why don't you try giving her a call, Jen? Maybe your network's better."

Jen was scrolling through her cell address book when Anne started screaming. She looked up.

The news cameras, which had been trained on the ambulances, suddenly swiveled back and captured an image that would become seared into Jen, Tommy, and Anne’s memory; the moment the nightmare became real, the moment their lives changed forever.

One of the SWAT team held the side-door open as Father Lucas and the rest of the blood-splattered SWAT team rolled a gurney down the flight of concrete steps in front of H & S. At first, Jen hardly recognized the girl on the gurney; the girl’s dark hair streamed loose, half-covering her face. Her sweater was torn and sodden with blood, almost unrecognizable. One of her flats had fallen off; her foot dangled like a child’s.

It was the argyle socks, the socks that Jen had teased her about only a few hours earlier. Rosamund. Jen clapped her hands to her mouth, afraid she would be sick.

“Oh my God, Rosamund – “Anne rushed towards Father Lucas; he waved her away, as he helped the EMT load Rosamund in the ambulance. “Type A,” he said.

“Is she – “ Anne said.

“Is she going to make it? That’s in the hands of God now.” Father Lucas hopped in the ambulance. “I’m going to the hospital. No, Tommy. Take the girls home. And pray. Pray without ceasing. I’ll call you the first that I know.”

Another EMT ran around the back of the ambulance, slamming the door shut; the siren flicked on, and they were gone, leaving Tommy, Jen, and Anne in the dust.