Dlouhá třída, however, greeted him with the powerful and heady aroma of bread. As far as the eye could see, celebrated Prague bread and rolls lay golden and fragrant on bakers’ stalls and counters. Although he had breakfasted in the hospital and wasn’t hungry, he couldn’t resist and bought two fresh rolls at the first stall he came across. The rolls—called caltas—were shaped so erotically that, for a while, Reynevan wandered along Dlouhá třída in a dream, bumping into stalls, lost in thoughts that raged like desert winds about Nicolette. About Katarzyna of Biberstein. There were several extremely attractive women of various ages among the passers-by he bumped into and jostled, lost in thought. He didn’t notice them. He apologised absent-mindedly and went on, by turns chewing a calta and staring at it spellbound.

The stench of blood in the Old Town Square brought him to his senses.

Ah well, thought Reynevan, finishing the calta, perhaps that’s not so strange—blood is nothing new for these streets. Jan Želivský and nine of his companions were executed right here, in the old town hall, having been lured here that Monday in March. After that treacherous deed, the town hall floor was washed, and red foam streamed under the doors and flowed—it was said—all the way to the pillory in the centre of the town square, where it formed a huge puddle. And soon after, when the news of the tribune’s death provoked an outburst of fury and the lust for revenge in Prague, blood flowed along all the surrounding gutters.

People were walking towards the Church of Our Lady before Týn, crowding into the courtyard leading to its doors. Rokycana will be preaching, thought Reynevan. It’ll be worth listening to what Jan Rokycana has to say, he thought. It’s always paid to listen to Jan Rokycana’s sermons. Always. Particularly now, at a time when the current events are supplying subject matter for sermons at a simply alarming rate. Oh, he has plenty to preach about. And it’s worth listening to.

But there’s no time. There are more pressing matters, he thought. And there’s a problem. Namely, that I’m being followed.

Reynevan had become aware of being followed quite some time before. Right after leaving the hospital, by the Church of the Holy Cross. His pursuers were cunning, kept out of sight and hid themselves very adeptly. But Reynevan had cottoned on. Because it wasn’t the first time.

He knew—in principle—who was following him and on whose orders they were acting. Although it wasn’t especially important.

He had to lose them. He even had a plan.