For the time being, though, I need help. I won’t get much done here without help.

Two inconspicuous men were sitting in one corner, hunched over beer mugs. They were dressed simply and meagrely but were too clean for ordinary vagabonds, and nor did their faces bear the mark of chronic undernourishment. One had very bushy eyebrows, the second a ruddy and shining face. They were both wearing hoods. Both, Reynevan observed, often—too often—glanced towards him.

I need help. Who can I ask? Canon Otto Beess? I’d have to go to Wrocław and that’s risky.

To the monks of the monastery of the Holy Spirit in Brzeg? It’s doubtful they still remember me; five years have passed since I worked in the hospital. Furthermore, Birkart Grellenort might have eyes and ears there, too. Perhaps, then, I should go to Świdnica? Justus Schottel and Simon Unger, Scharley’s friends from the printing works in Kraszewice Street, will certainly remember me—I helped them for four days with their obscene paintings and woodcuts.

That’s probably the best plan, he thought. Scharley and Samson, who will be searching for me in Silesia—there’s no doubt about that—will surely end up at the printing works. Until that time, I’ll hide there, think up other plans, including…

Including a plan of how to get closer to Nicolette in secret.

The two men in the corner were talking softly, leaning over the table and drawing their hooded heads close. For some time, they hadn’t looked towards Reynevan once.

Perhaps I’m imagining it, he thought, perhaps my suspicions are now becoming pathological? I see and smell eavesdroppers everywhere. Like now, for example, that tall character at the bar, swarthy and dark-haired, resembling a journeyman, is looking at me surreptitiously. Or so it seems, at least.

To Świdnica, then, he decided, standing up and tossing a few coins on the table from what the Green Lady had given him when they parted. To Świdnica, via Rychbach. Riding the horse that the Green Lady had lent him.

After leaving the smoky tavern, he breathed in the November evening air, which now carried a boreal scent of winter, a harbinger of frosts and snowstorms.

It’s the twelfth of November, he thought, the day after Saint Martin’s Day. It’ll be Advent in three Sundays. In another four, it’ll be Christmas. He stopped for a moment, looking up at the sky, streaked fiery-purple in the west. I’ll set off with the dawn, he decided, entering a lane and heading towards the stable where the horse was being kept and where he planned to sleep. If I don’t dawdle, I’ll make it to Świdnica before the gates are closed…