“Parsifal of Rachenau?” asked the housekeeper, who was observant and rarely missed a trick. “What about him? Has he declared his love? Did he finally propose? Or quite the opposite?”

“On the contrary,” said Ofka, sniffling. “He said he can’t marry me because his father won’t permit it. His father is making him marry… Anooooother…”

“Don’t bawl. Speak.”

“… His father is making him marry another. Parsifal doesn’t want her. Not now, not ever. But he can’t marry me, either. He told me he can’t. He won’t oppose his father’s wishes. He’s entering a monastery. The idiot.”

“As regards the monastery,” said the housekeeper, nodding, “I agree. An idiot, indeed. But a father’s wishes are a sacred thing. One mayn’t oppose them.”

“Not a bit of it!” yelled Ofka. “One may indeed! What about Wolfram Pannewitz? Did he wed Kasia Biberstein? He did! Although his father forbade him! They had their wedding, they had their celebration, now everybody is content, including old Pannewitz. Because Wolfram loved Kasia. But Parsifal doesn’t looove me, waa-waa-waa…”

“Don’t bawl,” said the housekeeper, glancing at the door to make sure no one was listening. “That Parsifal of yours still hasn’t led her to the altar, there hasn’t been a betrothal. Much can still happen. Fate can bring much. And you ought to know that there are…”

Ofka wiped her nose with a sleeve and opened her hazel eyes wide.

“You ought to know,” the housekeeper continued more quietly, “that there are ways… to help fate. But you need courage—”

“I’m prepared to do anything for him,” said Ofka, clenching her teeth.

Elencza Stietencron shuddered and leaped up on hearing the grinding of stones under boots. She involuntarily leaned against a dry branch, which snapped with a loud crack. A muffled cry from the path answered the crack. Elencza froze, her heart beating in her chest like a bird struggling to escape from a cage.

A figure appeared on the path and Elencza sighed with relief. For it wasn’t a brigand, a werewolf, a Baba Yaga, a dreadful forest spirit, a dangerous green-skinned alp or one of those notorious wandering monks bent on besmirching a maiden’s honour. The figure appearing before her was a girl, younger even than she herself. With a fair plait, a freckly face and a retroussé nose. Dressed like a man and very opulently, at that.

“Oh my,” said the freckled girl, sighing deeply to see Elencza. “Oh my, I was frightened. I was certain it was a werewolf… Or a wandering monk… Oh my. Greetings, whoever you are… I am—”

“Quiet…” whispered Elencza, going pale. “Somebody’s coming… I heard footsteps…”