She must get dressed and run away to find her parents in their new shtetl. No matter how many versts the carriage had traveled yesterday—and how many days it might take her to run or walk back—she must let them know what a mistake they’d made in trusting Yitzik Moskowitz, who no longer deserved to be called “reb” like an honorable man. Her parents would take her back in spite of what she’d done, in spite of the disgrace that must now be imprinted on her forehead like the mark of Cain.

She peeked out the window. Outside, the tall buildings were stone and brick, not wood, and the street was the busiest she’d ever seen. It wasn’t a market day, with carts lining the road with produce, livestock, and household goods, yet there was a crowd on the paved sidewalks moving not with the air of humble peasants but with that of self-assured masters. Covered coaches, open carts, and even one horseless carriage—she’d only heard about them—traveled on the cobblestoned street. This was what a city looked like.

But which city was this?

She unlatched the window and looked down. It was much too high to jump, far higher than the roof of her parents’ hut in Komarinoe. She stood still, pondering her options.

Behind her she heard a key turn in the lock, and the door opened. She recoiled and pressed her back to the corner, trapped.

“Did you sleep well, my dear?” asked Yitzik Moskowitz.

She dared not speak of her dishonor, of his assault of her body. “Why was the door locked?” she asked, her tone meek.

“For your protection, my dear. You never know who prowls around an inn.” He raised his arm and held up a blue coat. From across the room, she could see that its fabric and style were that of a rich lady’s garment. “Hurry now. We have a train to catch,” he said.

She glared at him, refusing to be appeased. “I want to go home.”

“No, my dear. You don’t.”

Years later she’d recall the moment when she’d stepped down to the street and was almost alone. Yitzik Moskowitz was speaking to the coachman on the other side of the waiting carriage before he stepped back to Batya, before he gripped her arm and guided her in. She had stood in the midst of the scene she had watched from above, and up close it was terrifying: dizzying commotion, chaotic noises, the air reeking of horse manure, soot, and perfume. She was a small mouse, a guilty one.