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The Flesh Servant found a mutilated corpse in the upstairs bathroom. The cistern and the floor tiles were stained so red they were almost black. Maria looked rather unwell. She asked the Flesh Servant to restore the murdered girl's head so they could identify her and notify her family of the terrible news.
Mr. Z leaned against the wall smoking, glancing intermittently at the clock on the wall. Several Flesh Servants who had gone out returned with clothes and coarse bread. The hungry girls quietly took the hastily gathered clothes from them: cloaks, men's shirts, old trench coats, and one or two rather nice wool coats. It was a motley assortment, but at least they no longer had to freeze in the cold wind.
Maria closed the windows and lit the fireplace. Wrapped in their clothes, the girls huddled together on the old sofa of their own accord, and the room finally grew a little warmer. The water had not yet heated up, and thin wisps of white vapor rose from the kettle's spout. The girls received the coarse bread being handed out, one slice each, along with a cup of hot water. Holding food barely softer than wood, they swallowed and ate the dry bread in tiny bites.
"We owe you a great deal this time," Maria said.
"You're too kind. If you hadn't passed on the information, I wouldn't have had a chance to contact them in time." Mr. Z took a deep drag of his cheap cigarette without so much as a frown. It had none of that supposed mellow aroma. Its only virtue was how harshly it stung his nose and throat, constantly reminding him of the hardship he had lived through before the Lord saved him.
Mr. Z tapped off the ash. "Still, I