She claps her hand in excitement. “Yannai and his men will pray, indeed. But not here. At the very gateway of prayer”

Leonora drums her fingers on the table. The men are talking, talking, talking. A thornbush of words. The only part that makes sense is the guard that they are placing around the factory: three Muslims with broad shoulders and heavy fists.

They have to be Muslims, for she wants a full report of any suspicious activity, and a Jew may decide to protect his brother, or will ask a sh’eilat rav before divulging what he has seen, by which time she will have missed her chance to act.

Outside, the sun is sinking, and the room is gradually growing dim. The day is dying, and all she can think of is getting out, escaping the room. She wants to shrug off the details of their arguments and brush the rancor off, so her heart can rest, and she can think things through. As the servants knock and enter, lanterns in hands, Leonora stands.

“Let us end this for the day.”

The men look up at her.

“Yishai?”

He nods. “Yes, honorable Mama.”

“You will ensure that the guard is set up this very evening.”

He opens his mouth to protest, and she knows what he will say — what is there to protect? There is little that has not been ruined.

She holds up her hand to prevent the tide.

When the men leave — finally, finally — Leonora saddles her horse, and, with a haul and an ache in her shoulders, lifts herself astride.

Out of this town. Out. To the end of the street, back straight, head erect. She presses on the horse’s flanks, and it quickens its pace to a trot. It is getting dark now. She has no lantern. But there will be a bright moon when it rises, for it is just a few days after the middle of the month. Midsummer. Soon enough, Elul will come, Rosh Hashanah, a new year. Winter. The icy wind that blows from the North.

Faster. She is out of the town now, in the hills, and she tugs the reins. The horse speeds to a canter.

It throws its head up, and she leans forward and strokes its neck.

“Be at ease,” she whispers.