“Tremble before the wrath of the Lord,” they heard as they walked away, “ye, who believed the lies and closed your ears to the truth. Ye who embraced immorality and are entering debauchery. Ye, on whom the sentence of damnation has lain for long ages! Tremble and repent! For a day of wrath is nigh, a forlorn day, a day of tears. Judgement Day is nigh!”

“Dies irae, dies illa,” mumbled the mysterious green-eyed woman, pressing herself against his arm. “Et lux perpetua.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the synagogue. But don’t worry, I won’t try to convert you. You can be a goy until Judgement Day. But spies don’t frequent the synagogue. They don’t look in there. They’re afraid of Jewish spells.”

In the end, they didn’t enter the synagogue, which was located in the north-east part of Strzegom, not far from the New Gate. Instead, they sat down on a low wall and talked, hidden behind the staircase leading to Ezrat Nashim, the women’s courtyard. Reynevan felt uncertain and tense under the piercing gaze of the strange woman’s eyes; yellow-green eyes like a cat’s and equally inscrutable. He was decided. Having had enough of uncertainty. Enough of mysteries. And enough of being manipulated.

“First things first,” he interrupted her, soon after she began speaking. “Let’s begin with this. Who are you? Why did you help me in Wrocław, why did you intervene when I was arrested? Why are you here now, in order, you claim, to help me to free Jutta? Whose instructions are you executing? For it’s clear you aren’t doing it on your own initiative, independently, touched by human misfortune.”

“And why is that so clear?” she asked, tilting her head. “Don’t I look like somebody who might be moved by misfortune? First things first, you say. Agreed, as long as we can establish what comes first. I’m prepared to introduce myself. Once I give it some thought. In any case, you asked me in Racibórz in the spring. You have the right to know a little about me. And some more besides.”

She pulled the hood off her head and tossed her hair, which was as black and lustrous as a raven’s feathers.

“My name is Rixa Cartafila de Fonseca. You may call me Rixa. Why do you stare so?”

“I do not.”

“You do. Are you looking for where my Judenfleck is sewn on? Would it be easier for you if my name were Rachel? Or Sara?”

“Enough,” he said, regaining his poise, “you’ve introduced yourself, thank you, I’m honoured, the pleasure is all mine.”

“Are you quite sure it’s a pleasure?”

“Oh, indeed. We shall leave that issue for now. Let’s move on to the others.”

“I can’t tell you whose orders I’m executing. I cannot and that is final. What you know will have to suffice.”