Alex cannot help himself. Before Vesna's hand has fully emerged from her coat, he blurts: "Sorry — what is that?" Vesna pauses. She looks at him with the patience of geological strata. From her pocket she produces three things, which she lines up on the front pew with the careful precision of someone who has done this exact thing before: a small glass flask of amber liquid, a folded document so old it has turned the colour of weak tea, and — inexplicably — a key roughly the size of a loaf of bread. "The rakija," she says, tapping the flask, "is because Thursdays are long." She taps the paper. "This is a contract, signed 1886 — one year before the collapse." She lifts the key. It clanks with profound authority. "And this opens the bell tower, which your book says is sealed." She looks at Mira. "It is not sealed."