“Yes, Reverend?”

“Something has occurred to me. Concerning Felicjan, in fact. Concerning your Jutta. There even seems a way to do it. Not the best, perhaps, but no other solution occurs to me at the moment. But it needs time. Several days. Can you remain in Wrocław for a few days?”

“I can.”

Saints Cosmo and Damian, the patrons of barber-surgeons, the former with a box of balsam, the latter with a flacon of healing elixir, were painted on the sign above the entrance to the bathhouse. The artist had spared neither paint nor gilt on the saintly twins, making the sign arresting; the vivid colours drew one’s attention even at a distance. The barber-surgeon had been amply rewarded for his outlay on the sign painter: despite there being a number of bathhouses in Mill Street giving customers a choice, Cosmo and Damian’s was usually full. Reynevan—whose eye had been caught by the colourful sign two days earlier after his visit to Otto Beess—had to book a visit in advance to avoid crowds.

The bathhouse was actually fairly deserted, probably owing to the early hour, and there were only three pairs of poulaines and three sets of clothing hanging up in the changing room, guarded by a grey-haired old man. The man was sickly-looking and shrunken, but he had a look even Cerberus of Tartarus wouldn’t have been ashamed of, so Reynevan also left his raiment and cash in his care without fear.

“Teeth not troubling you?” asked the barber, rubbing his hands together, a hopeful smile on his face. “Shall we pull one out?”

“No, thank you,” said Reynevan, shuddering slightly at the sight of pliers of various sizes adorning the wall of the barber’s shop. Alongside the pliers was a no less impressive collection of scissors, knives, razors and blades.

“But we’ll be letting some blood, won’t we?” continued the barber hopefully. “Surely?”

“It’s February,” said Reynevan, looking at the barber-surgeon haughtily. During his very first visit, he had hinted that he was somewhat familiar with medicine, knowing from experience that physicians were treated better in bathhouses. “One shouldn’t let blood in the winter,” he added. “Furthermore, it’s a new moon, which doesn’t augur well, either.”

“In that case…” said the barber, scratching the back of his head. “Just the shave, then?”

“I shall first bathe.”

It turned out that Reynevan had the bathing room entirely at his disposal, since the other customers were availing themselves of the hot room, with its steam and birch twigs. On seeing a customer, the Bademeister—or bathhouse orderly—who was busy near the tub, slid aside a heavy cover made of oaken planks. Reynevan entered the vat without further ado, stretched himself blissfully and sank in up to his neck. The Bademeister slid the cover nearer to him in order to keep in the warmth.

“I have medical treatises for sale,” said the barber-surgeon, who was still in the room. “Cheaply. Aegidius Corbolienus’s De Urinis. Sigismund Albicus’s Regimen Sanitatis…”