Bluma swallowed. “There’s a second cemetery,” she said. Her stomach squirmed as she told Yehuda Leib how to find the entrance to the narrow alleyway. What if Lilith was still there?

“Why don’t I just come with you now?” said Bluma, but Yehuda Leib shook his head.

“There’s something I’ve got to do,” said Yehuda Leib. “Alone. I’ll meet you there.”

Bluma began to chew on her lower lip. “And you’re sure we’ll be able to get through?”

“Not yet,” said Yehuda Leib. “Give me an hour.”

But as Bluma turned to go, something made her freeze in her tracks.

“Oh no,” said Bluma, her teeth gritted hard. “Oh no.”

“What is it?” said Yehuda Leib.

Bluma turned back. “Don’t look,” she whispered, “but up there on the rooftop—”

“The cat?”

“Yes,” said Bluma.

“It’s been there since we arrived.”

“Yehuda Leib,” said Bluma as quietly as she could, “I think I’m being followed.”

This was trouble. Bluma’s breathing began to quicken.

“Oh no,” she said again. “Oh no, what do I do?”

“It’s all right,” said Yehuda Leib softly. “Do you think you’re in danger?”

“No,” said Bluma. “No, I think there would be more if they meant to attack.”

“Good,” said Yehuda Leib. “That’s good. Can you lose her?”

Bluma swallowed. “I’ll try.”

“All right,” said Yehuda Leib. “One hour.”

“One hour,” said Bluma.

“Go.”

—

The light in the street was cold and gray as Yehuda Leib made his way behind the backs of the fervently praying Hasidim toward the entrance of the general store. The front windows were large, the glass so clean it sparkled, but little of the diffuse, cloudy sunlight managed to penetrate the gloomy shop.

Yehuda Leib tried the doorknob, and it turned smoothly in his hand. He stepped inside, swinging the door shut behind him, and in the sudden quiet of the still shop, the tinkle of the small entrance bell above seemed deafening.

“Hello?” said Yehuda Leib, in as loud a whisper as he could muster.

There was no answer.

Lightly, he began to move farther into the shop. It was clearly a prosperous establishment: despite signs of heavy wear on the floorboards and countertops, the fixtures were in fine repair—dustless, polished to a high sheen.

The merchandise, too, was of good quality: sturdy suits and stylish dresses, fragrant coffee beans and teas. There were jars full of preserved fruit, dry goods in sacks and barrels, the finest hand tools and farm implements that money could buy, their hafts and blades gleaming. Yehuda Leib had never seen so many new things in one place before: crisp umbrellas, cushy baby carriages, shelves and shelves full of stiff-spined books, magazines, newspapers. His stomach moaned loudly as he passed a display of sweets in brightly colored packages, but he moved swiftly on.

He’d just seen it: a gash of bright light leaking from the back-room door.