Lucy sat for a long while after Agnes had left, trying to connect the author of the elegantly lovelorn letters he’d been delivering each day with the feral and cretinous apparition he’d seen on the landing. When he found he couldn’t link these two, he elected to let it lie awhile. A restlessness came over him and he dressed, descending the stairs and crossing the entryway for the outdoors. Stepping into the cool morning air, he pulled on his cap, careful not to disturb the officious bandaging. He felt an affinity for his head wound; was there not a certain sweetness in its aching pain? He wondered what Klara’s reaction to his injury might be, and he imagined her gentle hands searching his skull to pinpoint the epicenter of tenderness. He would tell of how he came to be hurt, and she would swoon and marvel at his trial of fright, afterward comforting him with a cup of tea, and perhaps a slice of poppy-seed cake. And this moment, would it not make the entire ordeal worthwhile for Lucy? Alas, this was not to be, for when he arrived at Klara’s door he discovered she was not there, and neither was Memel, and neither was Mewe, which isn’t to say the shanty was empty, for it was not; in fact it was filled to capacity, filled with soldiers, the same group Lucy had met when he’d first arrived at the castle. All were standing save for the exceptionally handsome man, who sat in the center, at the table, and he held Klara’s cape in his hands. His face was drawn and grim, and he was not in the least pleased with Lucy.