Alex and Mira sit. This is non-negotiable. Vesna produces from her coat's apparently bottomless interior a small thermos and two dented tin cups, which she fills with something that smells of plums and serious decisions. "The bell tower," she begins, settling on the altar step like a feature of the architecture, "did not fall in the earthquake." Alex wraps both hands around his cup. Mira, with visible heroic effort, closes the guidebook — a sound like a small surrender. "It fell," Vesna continues, "because of a donkey." She pauses for effect. Outside, thunder agrees with her. "His name was Bogdan. He belonged to the bishop's cousin. The bishop's cousin owed the stonemason money." She sips from her own cup. "These things are connected." She looks at them both in turn — the look of a woman who has never in her life needed anyone to confirm she has their attention. Mira's hand drifts, involuntarily, back toward the guidebook.