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blood.
    “It will soon be time for the mayrev prayers,” I whispered.
    Rabbi Loew stroked his beard as he considered this.
    “What would the great ReMo do?”
    He was referring to my old teacher, Rabbi Moyshe Isserles of Kraków, who once delayed the mayrev services for nearly two hours so he could resolve a difficult case that allowed a poor orphaned girl to get married.
    “He would probably put off the Shabbes prayers until our fair companion can be cleared of this unjust accusation.”
    “Precisely, Rabbi Benyamin.”
    They say that the material universe God created only lasts for six days at a time, and that Shabbes is needed to renew it another six days. But in this instance I figured that the universe would just have to wait a little bit longer.
    E ver since our masters were princes in Palestine, it has been our custom that the shrouds of the rich must be no different from the shrouds of the poor. But the Strekov family had no such customs. They had planted so many oversized monuments to their glorious dead in the mossy soil around their ancestral home that, with a little help from the fog, the place looked like a haunted castle, right down to the tarnished coat of arms over the gate with the double-headed eagle on a field of red and white, and a couple of ancient gravestones bearing the German form of the family name: Schreckenstein.
    The great hall was drafty and cold, and the iron cressets filled with burning oil made the shadows dance like demented warlocks around an unholy fire. The bloody shroud the villagers had thrown over Sir Tadeusz’s naked wounds swayed in the breeze, as if the corpse were still stirring.
    The men who had carried him to this resting place stood silently with their caps in their hands and their eyes wandering around the hall, marveling at the high-vaulted windows and the tapestries hanging on ropes of spun gold.
    Lord Strekov was a broad-chested man with a weathered face framed by a thick mane of graying hair that was parted in the middle. His dark red velvet doublet was crisscrossed by two ribbons of brocade that formed a large black and silver X over his heart. He stood before us with his hands squarely on his hips and demanded to know who was guilty of this murder. A young noble who must have been his son, Sir Mateusz, stood by his side glaring at us, his eyes blazing with hatred.
    Father Stefan explained that the woman being held under guard before him, Kassandra the Bohemian, was discovered standing over the body of Lord Strekov’s eldest son in the clearing shortly after having failed the trial by water, her body having been summarily rejected by the blessed spirits of the river.
    “But these strangers,” said the priest, referring to us, “are conducting what they call an ‘investigation’ to root out the guilty party and spare the young woman’s life.”
    “Who granted them such authority?” said Lord Strekov, his voice echoing around the pillars of his stately hall.
    “My lord,” said Rabbi Loew, bowing deeply. “Since we were exiled from the Land of Israel, the Divine Presence accompanies us wherever we go.”
    “Divine Presence, hell. When I find out who did this, I’ll grind them up like a bunch of Cossack dogs. I’ll even pay for the privilege.”
    He dug a coin out of his purse and tossed it at me. I caught it in midair and saved myself the indignity of having to scrounge around on the floor for it, even though handling money is forbidden on Shabbes. Lord Strekov was impressed with my reflexes, and he smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.
    The coin was a three groschen piece of little value, faced with a standing eagle whose tongue was sticking out so far it looked like it was being strangled.
    “Well, since we’re now working for you,” I said, dropping the coin into my purse, “my first bit of advice would be that you’ll never completely crush the Cossacks, no matter how many horsemen you have at your command.”
    “Don’t talk to me about conquering