The next day didn’t bring Reynevan an answer, indeed brought nothing but an aching neck. The next day wasn’t especially generous to Samson and Scharley, either, it appeared, at least regarding suggestions and solutions. The giant didn’t mention the conversations of the previous day at all and focused all his attention on the red-haired Marketa, both at breakfast and after it. So Reynevan and Scharley took advantage of the first opportunity to go outside and take a walk together. A long one, to a causeway marked by an avenue of crooked willows separating two empty fishponds.

“It looks like Marketa and Samson are serious,” began Reynevan, nodding towards the homestead.

“It does indeed,” said the penitent gravely, “as is everything with Samson. He does appear to be a creature from another world. At times, I start believing it.”

“Dammit, Scharley! He’s our comrade—what point would there be in his deceiving us? If he says he’s a visitor from another dimension, we must believe him! Serious, expert and unquestioned authorities have puzzled over this and expressed their views on it. Bezděchovský, Axleben, Rupilius… Do you think they’d be taken in by a swindle, or fail to expose a swindle? So where do your mistrust, your lack of faith come from?”

“Because I’ve seen swindles in my life that even took in authorities. I have even—I confess with remorse—perpetrated several. The peccadillos of youth… But enough of that. I said I’m starting to believe. For me, that’s a great deal.”

“I know. And since I’ve mentioned him, Rupilius—”

“Forget it,” the penitent cut him off dryly. “Samson doesn’t want to. I’ve spoken to him. He’s fretting a little over the promise you gave Rupilius, but he’s made a decision. Rupilius, he declared, will have to cope by himself, for he—Samson Honeypot—has something more important on his mind. Something he doesn’t want to give up.”

“Marketa.”

“Of course.”

“Scharley?”

“What?”

“Hmm… Does she ever speak?”

The penitent said nothing for a moment before replying.

“Not that I’ve heard.”

The following day—a Wednesday according to the calendar—yielded scant results as far as clarity and solutions were concerned. And came to nothing.

When it began to get dark, they sat down to supper, all five of them. The conversation was strained, so they spent most of the time in silence. The red-haired Adamite ate little but spent the whole meal staring at Samson, and one hand was busy the entire time touching his enormous paw. The sight of tender looks and gestures not only embarrassed the others but made them jealous. Reynevan never remembered Jutta—not even during moments of passionate intimacy—giving him such overt, visible proof of adoration. He realised that his jealousy wasn’t very rational, but its barbs didn’t sting any the less for that.