The Vorrh

he knew that she had been told. The haughty outsider was aware of his crime, though she feigned a clever ignorance. He started to observe her more closely, wondering how he would dispose of her when the time came.
    Yet Cyrena’s gleaming, over-active vision missed nothing; she saw the simple, wicked plans being knotted together behind the old servant’s red, veined eyes. If she did not deal with this now, it would soon be permanently out of her control.
    Ghertrude was out shopping when Cyrena arrived at the gate. She was let in and made to cross the cobbled yard, coming to a stop on the exact spot where Hoffman had been dispatched.
    ‘Herr Mutter, I think we should talk,’ she said, peering down at the bunched and ready man. ‘There is a great secret,’ she began, ignoring the clenching of his fists and his boots bracing the ground. ‘A great secret that I think you should know. I am telling you because I know of the loyalty you have for your mistress. In the future we will need your help even more, and that is why I am telling you, because Ghertrude is still too shy.’
    Mutter frowned and relaxed his attack stance.
    ‘The truth is, your mistress is going to have a baby.’
    He had known it, had felt it days ago. He had smelt the glow, the warmth hidden in milk. His house and his life had been full of it for years. He had known it and put the idea aside as being impossible.
    ‘Only the three of us know about this. She will tell her family later. I know this places an extra burden on you and I think it only fair that you should be remunerated for all you have done and will do in the future.’
    The old yeoman had no idea what she was talking about – ‘remunerated’ meant nothing to him.
    ‘So, Herr Mutter, please, accept this for your troubles.’
    She handed him a small cloth pouch, which he took gingerly, holding it in uncertain hands.
    ‘Do open it – it is for you and your growing family.’
    He pulled a document out from inside the pouch, awkwardly unfolding it into his blank stare. She suddenly realised that he could not read and was ashamed at her own ignorance; how could she have been so stupid?
    ‘I am afraid it is rather a complicated legal paper. Essentially, it is your house. It is the ownership of your home. It is now yours and your family’s, forever.’
    Mutter stared emptily at the paper, her words beginning to stick to it with an uncomfortable mixture of amazement and distrust. He wondered if it was a pay-off, or some sort of lever, to prise him away from his job. But no: his father had always paid rent to the Tulps, and so had he, endlessly. His cynical heart began to understand that it was, in fact, a gift. A gift for saving Ghertrude from that foolish man. A gift of freedom for his children and their children to come. He stared at her, changing gear from silence to awestruck speechlessness. She smiled at him from the bright clouds and said, ‘You are not to work today, Sigmund. Go, tell your good wife the news.’
    She fluttered her hand towards the door and he slowly started to move towards it, walking backwards in a crablike fashion. His smile began as he reached the wall and grew with every step that brought him nearer to home. He did not notice Ghertrude pass on the other side of the cathedral square as he hurried along, cap clutched to his chest.
    Ghertrude entered through the side gate and found Cyrena still standing in the courtyard. She looked at her friend in bewilderment.
    ‘I have just seen Mutter rushing through the streets, with an insane expression on his face.’
    Cyrena beamed at her. ‘Perhaps he is happy?’
    ‘I have never seen him like that before, I do hope he is alright.’
    ‘I am sure he is fine,’ said Cyrena, opening the door of the house and motioning for her friend to enter.
    Mutter was out of breath by the time he reached home. He stumbled inside, through his narrow door, catching his rigid boot noisily on the frame, dislodging minute traces of the vanquished Dr. Hoffman. The commotion made his wife stop her duties in the kitchen and rush to see what was going on.
    ‘Sigi? Whatever’s the matter?’
    He laid his cap aside, still grasping the crumpled paper and cloth bag.
    ‘What on earth is up? You look like a giddy ox, look at the colour of you, what is it?’
    He could say nothing through his breathless gasps, but his scarlet face looked as though it was ready to burst. He placed the paper on the dining table, which was the focus of the