"The good news is, Mr. Kraft's assistant will be passing by the manor today. Perhaps we could ask him to put in a good word for us."
"There's no need. It's just the usual work. Even farmers know better than to boast about land they haven't harvested yet." Dominic looked down into the basin, swept his hair back from his forehead, fastened the collar of his robe, and straightened the clasp on his cape, which bore the design of the Orthodox Cult's emblem.
"Our best strategy is probably to disappear from the monastery's view entirely for a few months. By the time Mr. Kraft has more or less forgotten about that carriage cursed by the devil, the manor should have something tangible to show for itself."
"So where are you going now?"
"To see Old John."
The reflection in the water showed a man neatly dressed, his forehead gleaming—a fitting image for a monk making an official visit. "Want to come with me?"
"No. You're actually planning to keep looking into this?"
"Are you coming or not?"
"I am."
Leaving the main road and following the edge of the settlement for half a circuit brought them to Old John's home, near a patch of withered, neglected wheat fields. More precisely, it was now the home of Old John's son, Little John.
Though the monks had spent quite some time among the local residents, they still knew little about this household.
The women talked about who was best at needlework, the men compared their drinking and strength, and the children shared tips about whose fruit was ripe for stealing.
Once you delved into the daily minutiae, you discovered that even the most complicated-looking village was actually quite small, like a tightly woven spiderweb. With so little entertainment, even the smallest incident