Alex goes through first, on the reasonable logic that if anything is about to collapse, it may as well happen to the person holding the key. The hidden space is barely four square metres: a stone ledge tucked between the bell housing and the outer wall, smelling of old tallow and neglect. The bell hangs above, vast and wholly indifferent. But it is what sits on the ledge that makes Mira grab his arm — three wooden crates stencilled in Cyrillic, a folding camp stool, and a leather ledger the size of a small door, lying open to a page dated September 1887. One month after the contract. Alex raises his camera. Mira raises her guidebook. They look at each other. The ledger's open page shows a hand-drawn cross-section of something — the chapel, possibly, or something beneath it — and below the diagram, in handwriting that is very definitely not Vesna's, a single underlined sentence neither of them can read.