“Almost.” Reynevan clenched his jaw. He had looked for Nicolette—unsuccessfully—the entire morning, all over Frankenstein, peering into taverns, searching for her after the Mass outside Saint Anne’s, at the Ziębice Gate and on the road leading to Stolz, asking people as he wandered through the Cloth Hall in the town square. And in the market hall, he had met—to his enormous joy and relief—Scharley and Samson.

“The girl’s probably at home by now,” he added.

That’s what he was hoping, at least. Stolz Castle was almost a mile from Frankenstein, the road to Ziębice and Opole was busy, and Katarzyna of Biberstein only had to say who she was for any merchant, knight or monk to help her get home. Thus Reynevan was almost certain that the girl had made it there safely. But it worried him that he hadn’t taken her himself. That wasn’t all he was worried about.

“Had it not been for you,” Samson appeared to read his mind, “the lass wouldn’t have got out of Castle Bodak alive. You rescued her.”

“And perhaps us, too,” said Scharley, licking the spoon. “Old Biberstein must have sent out a search party, and we are quite close to the site of the robbery, much nearer than yesterday evening. If we are caught… Perhaps the maid, remembering the rescue, will intercede on our behalf and beg her dear father for our members to remain intact.”

“If she so wishes,” Samson observed soberly. “And gets here in time.”

Reynevan didn’t comment. He finished his soup.

“You also impressed me. At Bodak, you handled five armed Raubritter swashbucklers—”

“They were drunk.” Scharley grimaced. “Had they been sober… But it’s true that I watched the martial prowess of our very own Samson Honey-Eater with unalloyed admiration. If you’d only seen how he battered down the gate, Reinmar! Ha, in sooth, if Queen Jadwiga had somebody like that at the Wawel Gate, there’d be Habsburgs on the Polish throne now… In short: we owe our lives to him.”

“But, Scharley—”

“We’re owe our lives to you, modest fellow. He also reunited us, Reinmar. When we had to choose at a crossroads, I was more in favour of Bardo, but Samson insisted on Frankenstein, claiming he had a presentiment. I usually ridicule such things, but in this case, when dealing with a supernatural creature, a visitor from the beyond—”

“You did what I suggested,” Samson cut him off, now quite unconcerned by the mockery. “Which turned out to be a wise decision.”

“There’s no denying it. Oh, Reinmar, how the sight of you in the Frankenstein town square gladdened me, framed against a slipper stall in the shadow of the town-hall tower. Have I told you how my—”

“You have.”