Like Edith, Misha had waited for the harvest supper and Demetrius’ return. He would explain about the letter and by then it wouldn’t matter. When Demetrius didn’t appear, Misha felt sick to the pit of his stomach and implicated in the shepherd’s disappearance in some way. Now it was too late and he couldn’t explain what had happened even to himself, just as he couldn’t explain why he could hear better than he had before being hit with the barrel of a gun.

The noise of words and the lack of quiet disturbed him. He found his own thoughts harder to hear and try as he might he couldn’t remember the order of what had happened that morning on the mountain. Was it the huntsman or his grandfather he’d met first? The letter and the guilt he felt for those unread words sat as heavy as lead on his conscience.

The butcher had shown no surprise when his grandson had returned to the village, his face badly bruised.

‘Accidents happen on mountains,’ he’d said.

Since then Misha hadn’t spoken to his grandfather and had done his best to avoid him. It had taken courage to ask if he might borrow his sleigh for the journey to town. He had stood a while at the butcher’s door, his body twisted with nerves, his leg shaking beyond his control.

‘What do you want?’ The butcher filled the doorframe.

Misha backed away.

‘The sleigh. I’m going with the cabinet maker to bring back the…’

He hadn’t finished when his grandfather said, ‘Come in.’ Misha hesitated. ‘Come in,’ said the butcher again.

The house was untidy. Food from his breakfast was still on the table and a sea of things, half put away and half forgotten.

‘This is why I need a wife,’ said his grandfather as if reading Misha’s thoughts. ‘Neither of my daughters think it fit or proper to come and help me. Why one has children…’ He stopped, then said, ‘The blacksmith…’

Misha’s heart sank further. He would not discuss his employer with his grandfather. He braced himself for a cross-examination about the blacksmith’s business. There was not much liking between the two men. Misha waited.

‘He has a cuckoo clock.’

Misha had just seen it. ‘A cuckoo clock?’ he repeated. He waited for the word ‘idiot’. It didn’t come.

Instead the butcher said, ‘I want one.’

Misha looked as stupid as he could without much difficulty, and said, ‘Why?’

‘For Edith. I want one for her. Not small, big. Bigger than the blacksmith’s. Here.’ And he gave Misha a bag of coins. ‘I don’t know how much such fandangled things are.’ He stopped again. ‘But fancy and in a box. Wrapped up. A gift.’

Misha took the bag and had reached the door when the butcher said, ‘Misha.’

Misha slowly turned.

‘Here,’ said his grandfather. ‘Take this for your trouble.’