Alex clears his throat and calls out, louder than strictly necessary: "Hello? We're tourists — not dangerous, just wet." A long pause. Then, from behind the altar, a figure straightens: an elderly woman in a waterproof coat the exact colour of a thundercloud, holding a mop. She examines them with the unhurried expression of someone who has outlasted several empires. "You are British," she says. Not a question. Her name is Vesna, she explains, and she mops the chapel every Thursday. Alex gestures at the lightning outside. She shrugs — exactly one millimetre. Mira, guidebook already raised like a weapon, opens her mouth. Vesna raises one finger without looking at her. "I know this book. The date for the bell tower — wrong." She sets the mop against the altar and reaches into her coat pocket. "Sit. I will tell you what actually happened here in 1887. It is better than what they printed."