There was a heaviness to Klara’s movements that night, and she laid with her back to Lucy. His own slumber was troubled and erratic, so that he overslept, awakening late in the morning. Klara was no longer in bed, but in the front room Lucy found she had laid out a pot of tea, a thick slice of bread, a jar of honey, and an apple, peeled and cored. The apple was crisp and tart; the tea had some trace of pine in it. He thought of Klara preparing his breakfast while he slept. A channel of sunlight entered the window, angling sharply to the floor, like a propped beam of milled timber. Dust floated amiably in this, then drew or was drawn into the surrounding darkness, which brought to mind the image of shifting tides. How quiet Lucy’s life was just then. He thought he had never been quite so melancholically happy as at that moment.
Clearing the table, he cleaned, dried, and stacked the dishes. The whistle of the morning train sounded down the valley, which meant he had twenty minutes to fetch the Baron’s letter and deliver it to the platform. He sat and pulled on his boots, and was lacing them when Klara burst in, short of breath, a bright look on her face.
“Didn’t you hear the train?” she asked.
“I heard it.”
“Well, get to work, you lazy man!” She pulled him up by the lapels and kissed him. Her smile was easy, and she gripped Lucy’s waist, pressing in close to him. Whatever it was that had been bothering her had been set aside; she had made some decision, and this was in Lucy’s favor. Pushing him out the door, she told him to return in time for dinner, and he said that he would. As he walked through the village he was so pleased, so relieved, because there was nothing the matter with his Klara, and all was well between them. This feeling of comfort was short-lived, however: as he passed the marketplace, the wily butcher approached him in the road, and said, “Shame about Adolphus, eh?”
“What about him?”
“You haven’t heard? He’s been taken prisoner.”
“How do you know?”
“I met one of his men on the mountain, and he told me all about it. Said Adolphus was shot in the gut, and so the others caught up to him and pulled him away. He was trailing blood, and never had any hope for escape. If he lives they’ll only hang him, I imagine. Now what do you make of that?”
“I don’t know what.”
“I would think you’re happy about it, eh?”
“No. I don’t know.” Lucy didn’t like the wily butcher for saying such a thing, even if it was true; and he felt a creeping brood coming on, for surely the news of Adolphus’s capture was the reason Klara had been weeping. And even though she appeared to have reconciled herself to its happening, Lucy knew this was not the last he would hear of it. What a violent thing love is, he thought. Violent was the word that had come to him.