“Oh, my son, my son.” The hosteller shook his head at Reynevan’s naive obtuseness. “Escape? But why? Don’t forget who’s performing penance here. Penance will one day be over for each of them. And although none of the men here is doing penance pro nihilo, the end of it erases their guilt. Nullum crimen, everything returns to normal. But an escapee? He would be an outlaw till the end of his days.”

“I see.”

“Good, for I’m not permitted to talk about it. More kasha?”

“With pleasure. And these penitents, for what misdeeds, I wonder, are they in here for?”

“I’m not permitted to say.”

“Oh, I’m not asking about specific cases, just in general terms.”

The steward cleared his throat and glanced around apprehensively, no doubt aware that in the house of penance, even the kitchen walls, hung with frying pans and garlic, might have ears.

“Oh,” he said softly, rubbing his hands, oily from herrings, on his habit. “They are doing penance for diverse things, my son, for diverse things. They are mainly sinful priests and monks, men whose vows bore down too heavily on them. Imagine it yourself: vows of obedience, humility, poverty, abstinence and moderation… As they say: plus bibere, quam orare. And a vow of chastity, regrettably…”

“Femina,” guessed Reynevan, “instrument diaboli?”

“If it were only femina…” The steward sighed, raising his eyes. “Oh, boundless sins, boundless, it cannot be denied. But here there are graver matters—much graver… But I’m not permitted to talk about that. Eaten your fill, my son?”

“I have. Many thanks. It was delicious.”

“Come whenever you wish.”

Inside the church, it was extremely gloomy. The glow of candles and the light from the narrow window fell only in the region of the altar itself, the tabernacle, the crucifix and a triptych depicting the Lamentation. The rest of the chancel, the entire nave, the wooden galleries and the choir stalls were plunged in murky semi-darkness. Perhaps it’s intentional. Reynevan couldn’t rid himself of the thought. Perhaps it’s so that during prayers, the penitents can’t see each other’s faces and don’t guess at other men’s sins and offences. And compare them with their own.

“I’m here.”

The deep, resonant voice that boomed from an alcove hidden between the choir stalls had a depth of gravity and dignity. But it was probably only an echo from the domed vault, moving around the stone walls. Reynevan moved closer.

A picture of Saint Anne with the Virgin Mary on one knee and Jesus on the other towered over the confessional, which exuded a faint aroma of incense and linseed oil. The painting was lit by a cresset, which had the effect of plunging the surroundings into an even dimmer gloom, hence Reynevan could only see the outline of the man sitting inside the confessional.