With the fire going, Siegfried rises to close the shutters, taking one last look at the darkening sky. When Petra returns from the privy behind the house, he is relieved that she did not attempt something stupid such as running away into a night that so frequently swallows up even the most agile. Judging by her heavy eyelids and the way her shoulders have given way, the day will soon be over with him as its victor. He fetches a wool blanket from the chest and tosses it to her. It is scratchy but well-made, unchewed by moths or wear.

For a long time, Petra sits in front of the hearth, blanket across her lap. To her, even Siegfried’s fire feels lavish. Its smoke exits through a chimney rather than smothering the room and everything in it with black soot. She watches the flames dance and flicker, too tired and stupefied from wine to fight against herself like before. Her adrenaline has faded, replaced with a placeless but consistent pain.

In bitter defeat, she resents the kindness shown to her. It is insincere, no different than a bribe. A dark part of her wishes he raped her instead, asks herself, which is more humiliating? To struggle valiantly against defilement or to eat from the steward’s ill-gotten plate? Her father would hate the latter even more. The first would only be a pity.

Siegfried was wise to strike at her weakness rather than going toe to toe with her strength. He of all people must know that across the weeks and months living on moldy bread and ever-dwindling charity any decent sustenance would appear as tempting as the very fruit of Eden. This loss only amplifies her ever-present, corrosive shame.