inspiration for the Dabrowski house

I went searching 'Polish manor houses' and 'Polski Dwory' and came upon a site of urban explorers who go over abandoned houses.  I know enough about urban exploring to follow and this was such a funky, character-filled place, and pics from other angles showed an urban setting for it, that I nicked it. I was unable to grab good internal pics from the phone footage inside,but I have done my best to remember and write a faithful account.

pics

I found this pic and added magnificent blond moustaches to make it Mikolaj the way Gosia saw him out of her bedroom window

cheeky, isn't he?

Gosia hiding in haughty 

ok, I was lazy and worked into the pic of Mikolaj to get his father, Lew, the Raven who roared

and for Mariola, this is Kazimierz

Mikolaj 1

so, skip the prologue if you don't want the angst.  a tale of some of Mikolaj's adventures and how he met Malgorzata and why ostensibly they were sent to Russia and then the real reason they were sent to Russia.

Prologue: Poland 1794

It had been a long time since Mikołaj had been part of a gun crew rather than just giving orders; but he hadn’t forgotten the skills.

“I need two volunteers without family to help me man the guns to give the rest of the Raven Banner time to retreat. Seweryn, take my ... your ... people home.” He took off the cabuchon emerald ring he had worn since his father had died, which had a raven incised into the base, to shine white through the green stone and slid it onto his son’s finger.

“Papa!”

“Son, it’s an order. Today I will be with your mother again. Don’t deny me the chance to save our people and join her.”

Weeping bitterly, Seweryn embraced his father, who was dismissing many of the eager volunteers on grounds that they were needed, and prepared to lead the Biały-Kruk legion back to their own lands, abandoning the revolution against Russia.

Mikołaj watched them go.

“My eyeballs are sweating, Jędrek. He’s a good boy; but it’s just us veterans now.”

Jędrek grinned at him.

“Be like old times, my lord.”

Mikołaj grinned back and nodded, a touch on the shoulder more than an embrace between him and his old servant.

They and their volunteers would sell their lives dearly killing Russians, to let the rest of the Biały-Kruk banner escape; his son, Seweryn and his English wife, Phyllis; Joanna his son of a daughter and her Władysław, all the others ...

Kościuszko had fallen; been captured. The rebellion had fallen apart.  The Russians would sweep through anyone remaining.

And he would feast in Heaven beside his beloved Małgorzata, his Gosia, who had lost the long battle with the growths inside her.

Meanwhile they could make the lives of some Russians miserable. He chuckled maliciously at the thought, and how happy that would make Gosia too.

What a good life they had had together! Always the Russian enemy at their door ...

He had not been more than one-and-twenty when it started....

Chapter 1: Poland, 1746

“But my lord ...”

“Are you arguing with me, Towarzysz Krasiński?”

“No, my lord, but ...” said Mikołaj.

“In my book, someone saying ‘but’ is arguing,” said Lord Darowski. “I’ve been asked for an escort to see the Prussian Ambassador’s young daughter into Prussia and delivered to school. Congratulations; by the expedient of your pyrotechnic arrangement, and the unfortunate accident suffered by Lord Jastrzębski, you have been deemed to have volunteered.”

Mikołaj managed not to grin. The unfortunate visitor had left a damp chair after Mikołaj’s pyrotechnic constructions had dipped a little too close to the heads of the senior officers and the visitor. The other officers were sufficiently used to pyrotechnic occurrences not to turn a hair.

“Incognito or armoured and winged, my lord?” said Mikołaj, resigned.

“Oh, armoured and winged; and show these damned Prussians what a good Pole can do,” said Darowski. “Airs above the ground, Cossack riding tricks, whatever it takes. Impress the buggers. I’d have asked you as a favour if I wasn’t able to bring undue pressure to bear on you,” he added. “I don’t have anyone as crazy as a Raven.”

Mikołaj sighed.

“Oh well, these German girls don’t like our Polish style,” he said, with some satisfaction. “I shan’t have to worry about her falling in love with the image of a winged hussar.”

“Laugh all you like; just remember, in Prussia you’ll be exotic.”

Mikołaj snorted.

It was said at court that if a girl had two suitors of equal status and wealth, she would choose the one who dressed in the German fashion and shaved his facial hair. Mikołaj had no intention of changing the way he lived for any girl, and wore a long, silky moustache which had never seen a razor. It was carefully trained to fall well clear of his mouth, and hung in its two silver-gilt parts to his chin.  His silver-gilt hair grew in a strip from front to back, and was held in a queue at the base of his neck, the sides of his head being shaved. The dark tan of his skin contrasted to his light hair, and was an affront to those westernised to the point where they avoided the sun to keep their skin pale. Mikołaj despised them with all his soul.

“I can take Jędrek?

“Yes, of course you must take your man,” said Darowski. “He’s getting your horses ready, and has laid out your armour. The honour of the Rota lies in your hands.”

“Ave, Rotmistrz, morituri te salutamus,” said Mikołaj.

“Oh, get along with you, boy, and remember, if you do die, I’ll court-martial you.”

“Yes, my lord.”           

She thought of herself as Małgorzata, or Gosia, the name her Polish mother had called her. Papa and Aunt Dorota insisted on the German form of her name, Margarete, with the ugly nickname ‘Marusch’ which Papa used. Aunt Dorota was half Polish too, but was fond of her Prussian roots.

Currently Gosia was locked in her room, because she had tried an impassioned plea to her father that if she must go to school that she might at least go to school in Poland, the only home she had known. Papa had insisted that it was time for her to learn to be a Prussian madchen, not some wild half-Cossack. The banishment to her room was for asking him why he had married Mama if he despised everything about her.

Gosia went to her window. She had considered many times climbing down, and each time had balked. At least they had not locked her up before she had made certain modifications to the coach currently being loaded with all she was supposed to need for her three years in exile in Prussia. And Gosia had made other preparations with smuggled and downright stolen items of clothing, though she  had always left gold.  The heavy panniers of her gown hid a multitude of things, including a satchel hung from her waist; and that she was wearing breeches. She was wearing a riding habit, a precaution her father had agreed on, that she might exercise on her horse at times on the journey, it being led behind the coach for the most part. The jacket over breeches might be disguise enough if she had the chance to escape; and she had Polish clothes with her.

Gosia looked out of the window, hearing the sound of hoofs on the cobbles without.

Mother of Poland, they sent a hussar! She thought, as the fabulous red-clad, armoured figure with wings trotted to the front of the house, a man in attendance. Gosia always loved to see the hussars parade; they were so magnificent! 

And then the winged hussar looked up, and their eyes met.

Gosia gasped. His eyes were as blue as a summer sky, and as merry as any peasant boy wetting his sweetheart on Wet Monday.  He had the most magnificent moustache which managed to be both fulsome and yet not to conceal his sensitive mouth. How kissable ...

What was she thinking of! Gosia felt her face grow hot at such an errant and most improper thought.

In return the winged hussar was staring at her as if he had been turned to stone.

“I don’t think I’m wicked enough to turn you into a pillar of salt,” said Gosia.

He pulled himself together, and quickly saluted.

“My lady ... er, I forget your name, I’m not good at German,” he fumbled for words.

“Małgorzata is my name, a good Polish name,” said Gosia.

He stared.

“Oh! I am supposed to escort some German wench,” he said, sounding disappointed. “I do beg your pardon; I thought it was you.”

“Grammar aside, it is me, I am half-Prussian,” she said.

“Which half?” he quipped and then blushed. “I do beg your pardon,” he added hastily.

“Since I think of myself as Polish, I suspect the German part must be the bottom half,” said Gosia with a straight face.”

He blushed again.

“Er ... I’d better knock,” he said.

Gosia withdrew and used the utensil; she did not want to have to do so in the coach in front of Aunt Dorota. Not with all the extra things she had under her gown.

Presently the door was unlocked and Aunt Dorota opened it.

“Your escort is here; only one man and his servant,” she said, in disapproval. “A single hussar.”

“Oh, well, a single hussar is an army on his own,” said Gosia. “Being Polish and hence a bohatyr.”

“You will forget such nonsense in Prussia,” said Dorota. “And all those unseemly Polish ideas.”

“I will never forget that I am Polish,” said Gosia.

Mikołaj was wondering how he had become so flustered by a pair of wistful smoky eyes. They seemed almost too large for the kittenish face, framed by soft waves of golden hair, touched with red in places in the morning light. The corona of hair was too heavy for the child, made her look crushed by it. He was also wondering why his heart had lightened that she had admitted to being the one he was to escort. He would, after all, hardly see much of her, when she was inside the carriage and he riding along on the outside. He stood in the vestibule whilst Jędrek held their horses, smarting under the sneering look of the Prussian in his stupid wig. Mikołaj permitted himself to sneer back. He almost laughed out loud when the fellow got out a quizzing glass.

“I know a good oculist if you have trouble seeing me, as large and as bright as I am,” he rumbled. Mikołaj stood two inches over six feet in his stockinged feet. The metal heels of his hussar boots added another inch, even though he held his helmet under one arm, so its plume did not add even more height. His armour added to the breadth of his shoulders, and his scarlet kontusz shimmered with silken threads shot with gold, his kontusz sash a thing of beauty in white, green and gold, holding the individuality of his heraldic colours.

“I can see, but as usual, can scarcely believe,” said the Prussian, who considered himself a tall man at six feet.

“Few are privileged to have the time to do so before they face their maker,” said Mikołaj.

The Prussian flushed a dull scarlet; the implicit threat was not to be taken lightly.

“And might I enquire who is here to escort my daughter? I hope your lineage is suitable.”

“Alas, no, your lineage does not match mine,” said Mikołaj. “But we Poles are hospitable people, so even one of my standing is sent to see to the escort for your daughter, as you represent a power in keeping with my own heritage. I am first son of the banner Biały-Kruk, Mikołaj Krasiński is my name and we trace our line to a daughter of Bolesław III Wrymouth.” He managed to sound bored, and took off his glove, ostensibly to examine his nails, something of an insult in itself.

The Prussian almost boiled over.

“Papa, if you and the Winged Hussar have finished playing street games with each other, I am ready,” said Gosia.

Her father glared at her.

“You are rude, and have no understanding of matters,” he said loftily.

Mikołaj was openly grinning.

“Oh, I don’t know, I think she understood very well what we were up to,” he said. “My lady.” He swept her a deep bow, Polish fashion, not western, sweeping his helmet across his body with the seeming effortless ease most would do with a lightweight fur hat, bending low towards the ground. He took her hand to kiss the air above the knuckles. His right hand being ungloved, and Gosia not having yet pulled on her own gloves it was a meeting of flesh to flesh, and Gosia found herself staring at him at the thrill that went through her, for once lost for words.

“Put your gloves on, girl!” hissed Dorota, adding something sotto voce about barbarians.

“Barbarian! How splendid; but I have my faults too,” said Mikołaj, who had plainly heard.

Dorota burned; he must have ears like a cat.

“Allow me, my lady,” said Mikołaj, taking Gosia’s gloves, and helping her on with them. There was no more contact of skin but somehow it felt very intimate. “We Ravens  are generally held to be urbane, but we do know when to stop being urbane and to become ... barbarians. And as I speak a number of languages, even the more uncouth ones, I am chosen to venture into Prussia as your escort. You need fear nobody whilst I ride at your side, though I fear I cannot offer to kill dragons for you. Krakus killed the last dragon in Poland, so they are a little scarce.”

Małgorzata chuckled.

“Fool,” she said.

“I live but to please,” said Mikołaj.

“It’s too late to get a replacement, I suppose,” said the Prussian. “I prefer you not to speak with my daughter more than necessary.”

Mikołaj looked down his nose at him.  He might not have the magnificent nose of Hryhor Sokołowski, the dour friend of Mikołaj’s father, but he knew how to use the assets he had.

“My Rotmistrz would wonder why you refuse one of the two who are the best of the best,” he said. “My friend Walenty being the other. But he has no tact. The lady is ready; was there any further reason to delay?”

There was no further reason to delay, and Mikołaj left with a grin at the horror on the face of the Prussian ambassador at the idea of dealing with someone considered by the Raven warrior to have no tact.

“You have a most wicked sense of humour,” hissed Gosia at the hussar.

He beamed at her.

“Someone has to make up for tripe-in-oil with sour milk accompanying you,” he said.

Gosia found she had to have a coughing fit to cover the laughter at his apt description of her aunt.

She got into the coach. Sitting was not entirely comfortable, but she dared not adjust her attire too much in front of her aunt.

Dorota got out her tambour frame, and motioned to Gosia to do the same. Gosia got out her own embroidery.  Her embroidery bag also contained a number of items which would have shocked Dorota, had she rummaged below the silks.

Gosia sat patiently embroidering, letting the morning melt into the afternoon, and a stop for a late luncheon at an inn.  The presence of a winged hussar got them a private parlour without a question asked, those currently occupying it hustled out.  If looks could kill, Lord Krasiński would be dead, but he sneered most beautifully at the western-clad szlachta.

And then they were back on the road, and Gosia was starting to become nervous. Had she not done enough?  had her best efforts been in vain? the road was full of potholes, she had had to put away her embroidery for fear of spoiling it, and even Dorota had given up, adjuring Gosia to recite poetry from  memory instead.  She glared when Gosia recited some of the poetry of Field Hetman Rzewuski but said nothing. She knew that her niece was more than capable of stumbling over German poetry and making a travesty of it if she felt like it, and getting through a journey without a quarrel was probably wise.

And then, the wheels dipped in a particularly deep rut or pothole, and the coach lurched, falling to one side. A loud snapping noise was heard, and the rear of the coach settled hard, backwards.

“Good God, what has happened!” cried Aunt Dorota.

“I rather fancy the coach has suffered an accident,” said Gosia.

Mariola/dance of justice 1

I don't have a working title for this one yet.  It covers some of the same ground as in Dance of Ravens but from Mariola's POV.  Bear with me if I made a mess of any of that [though I think most of the mess was in the re-write when I extracted this one to give Mariola her story]
Mariola takes her turn to be a page with Kazimierz and is engaged in a police procedural which mops up some more loose ends. 
I'm not sure if this counts as book four of the Dance Trilogy perhaps as Dance of Justice.  It wanted to be written so I wrote it ... I relied heavily on Kitowicz so I hope I've extracted fact from irony. 

Chapter 1

“Papa,” said Mariola, nibbing one long silver-gilt plait,  “It seems to work, but are there any nice ones left? And do I really want to be a boy, and am I too clumsy for anyone to want?”

“What are you talking about, my dear?” asked Mikołaj Krasiński.

“Being a page to a live one,” said Mariola.  “Irenka got Wojciech, and Filka got our Seweryn, and Joanna has her Falcon. Ida is going to school with half of Wojciech’s wards and etceteras. It helped learning to dance with Władek, though he is scarily intense. And I have been shadowing Joanna for years doing sabre drill in secret. We worked out together too when she wanted a partner. All I’m good at is music and not if anyone is looking at me because my fingers all become left feet.”

“Let us leave it until after Christmas, hmm?” said Mikołaj. “It’s not even St. Mikołaj’s day yet.”

“Very well, Papa,” said Mariola. It was fair enough. She was not yet as old as Joanna had been when she had become Władysław’s page.

It was a glorious Mikołajki; Mariola received a violin laid by her shoes and music for it, something she had yearned for, but which only Joanna had known. How special her sister had become to her!

Shortly after this, Mariola had a letter from Joanna.

“My dear sister,

You need to know how much of a sham Milena’s marriage was. Filip was unfaithful to her, and sired children out of wedlock, and also was cruel to her. You do not need to know all the details, but the horrid creature beat her; and one reason she was mean to you was because she was terrified of what he would do to you if he found out how much you managed to break. She took the blame for many of our misdeeds, and I feel so ashamed of not knowing.

 Anyway, she is steeling herself to go and sort out Filip’s holdings and seeing how many bastards he left. Uncle Adam Brzeziński is looking into things, and will advise her, but she will need a chaperone as she is taking Joachim Jędrowski as an escort, and we wondered if you would like an outing and to be her chaperone accordingly.

Your loving sister,

Joanna.”

“Mama! Look at what Joanna has written!” said Mariola. “I had no idea that Filip was such a tick; I mean, I never liked him but I did not know he beat Milena, nor that she took the blame for some of the things I broke. I wish Świnka had not killed him so casually so that Sewek could have eviscerated him to strangle him with his own guts.”

Małgorzata laughed.

“I should just have turned all you girls over to Papa to train, shouldn’t I?” she said. “I had some idea that if you didn’t have to be martial, you would have peaceful lives. I should just have acknowledged that I rather enjoyed the unsettled nature of our courtship, Steppe winters and learning swordplay and all.”

“Mama! Can you use a sword?”

“Just because I don’t follow the sabre drills daily doesn’t mean I can’t do them,” said Małgorzata. “And goodness knows, you’re all talented enough to make it worthwhile. Do you want to go to be Milena’s chaperone?”

“Yes, Mama, I think I do; it will help to show her there are no hard feelings. And hope to forge a better relationship with Milena.  We should be back by Christmas. I’m the big one at home now so I might as well be useful; and it will be good for Barbara.”

“She’ll leave it all to Ida,” said Małgorzata.

Mariola giggled.

“Send Ida to help Joasia with her orphans,” she said.

“You know, I might,” said Małgorzata. “I want all my girls to grow up strong and happy.”

“Joanna could cut away the growths

in you, that you were talking to Papa about in you, that you were talking to Papa about,” said Mariola.

“I am afraid to take the risk while Elżbieta and Katarzyna are still small,” sighed Małgorzata not pretending to misunderstand her.

“Think about it, Mama; you’ve been hiding pain for a while now.  It could kill you before you make up your mind.”

“I had no idea you knew.”

“Filka pointed it out; I’ve been watching you,” said Mariola.  “I remember that you took a growth out of our farrier’s wife, and made notes in your commonplace book about it.  I filched it and had a look at the watercolour. I wish  you would talk to Joasia. She has the fortitude few people have.”

“I ... will consider it. I do not want her left with guilt if I die of it.”

“Joasia’s too sensible to carry guilt for something she can’t help. She’d feel guilty if she didn’t do it though, if she knew. I’ve kept it from her.”

“After Christmas then; I’ll talk to her then.”

Mariola said no more, but she planned to say a lot more to Joanna. She went in search of Ida.

“Hey, Ida, how’d you like to help Magdalena look after the eyasses at the Mews?”

Ida considered.

“Eyass is the word used for a falcon fledgling taken from its nest to train, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes,” said Mariola.

“How very appropriate for acquired Zabiełłowie chicks,” said Ida.

“Papa,” said Mariola, “I want Joasia to cut out the growths in Mama, and I have a sense of urgency about it.”

Mikołaj blinked.

“You are one of our more sensitive girls; if you have a sense of urgency, I won’t argue,” he said. “Should I send her to France or England where they have the most advanced surgery?”

“I think it might kill her,” said Mariola. “I am going to talk Joasia into coming to do it the day after Mama sends Ida and me to collect Milena.”

“I tend to forget that my quiet girl has a will of steel,” said Mikołaj.  “I ... will make sure your mother is ready. I ... I will be there for you all.”

“I know, Papa; and I’m scared too,” said Mariola.

***

Joanna gave a boyish yell of delight when Mariola and Ida turned up.

“What, both of you to chaperone Milena?” she asked.

“No, I’m here to help with the little ones,” said Ida.

“And I want to talk to you seriously, Joasia,” said Mariola.

Joanna took one look at her sister’s face and yelled for Mestek.

“Show my sister Ida around and introduce her to people.,” she said. “Mariola, walk with me.”

Mariola was nothing loath.

“It’s Mama,” she said. “She’s sicker than she’s been letting  on.”

Joanna went white.

“And I put her through so much worry ...”

“Never mind that; she enjoyed rising to the occasion. Only have you got the fortitude to cut into her and excise growths? I heard her talking to Papa about how it feels as though she is pregnant with something growing, but she knows it is not, I’m not sure how she knows that.”

“Hellfire, damnation and steel!” said Joanna. “I ... yes, I can do it. It won’t be easy. Will ... can you help?  Basia can’t help from her wheeled chair; Milena probably will.  Władysław is steady. The difficult thing is not damaging the bladder and ureter on one side or the bowel on the other. Is it ... yes, it’s necessary or you wouldn’t ask.”

“Mama does a good job of hiding that she is in pain and that she is so tired,” said Mariola. “But I’ve been watching her.” She pulled a face. “She wanted to wait until after Christmas so as not to spoil it for everyone.”

“Mikołajki is over. In this blessed tide of Advent I feel I would have more support from the Mother of Poland, who knew the discomfort of pregnancy and birth. We’ll do it tomorrow. I’ll send back word.”

“I thought you’d feel like that so I spoke to Papa about it.  He’s expecting us. You ... are you going to tell Ida?”

“I’d have wanted to be told.”

They set off early, and with the aid of Małgorzata’s own maid, Ala, who helped her with surgery, they swabbed down every surface of Małgorzata’s hospital with rosemary oil.  The big, heavy table for surgery was set, and the skylight uncovered for maximum natural light. Sharp knives had been boiled and sat in rosemary solution. Pure gold thread to use inside also lay in dishes with rosemary oil. Mariola helped lay things out. She would be there for Joasia and would learn from her.

Mikołaj carried Małgorzata to the operating room. He was saying,

“I have rarely given you orders as your lord, Gosia, my love. I take full responsibility for this. I don’t trust anyone more than I trust Joasia if you can’t do it yourself; and as you’re going to be off your head on wódka and haszysz tea you won’t be much good at surgery.”

“Mikołaj... I don’t want to leave you and the children ...”

“Gosia, I’ve watched you wasting away and over the last few months it’s been more profound.”

“Kiss me, my hussar, and hold my hand.”

He kissed her.

“I’ll be with you, always, even if there comes a time we are briefly separated in this life,” he said. “You’ll come through this; you are too strong not to do so.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Away with you, woman; you’re not meek and mild. I recall it was you who proposed to me. We’d known each other about six hours.”

“You said yes, though.”

He laid her on the table.

“Damn this table is cold,” said Małgorzata. “I haven’t had enough sympathy for my own victims.”

Seweryn was there, looking haggard. Phyllis held his hand tightly.

“Mama Raven, you are not going to give up,” said Phyllis.  “Think of all those grandchildren you are waiting to meet.”

Małgorzata smiled at her daughter-in-law.

“Quite right, dear daughter,” she said. “But take Seweryn away. He’ll be underfoot.”

“And likely to pass out. I know,” said Phyllis. “Kiss Mama, Sewek and come away to organise the little ones for the day.”

“How long?” said Seweryn.

“If I haven’t done it by midday it won’t get done,” said Joanna, who was white. “Go away, Sewek. This is the job of Mama’s big girls. Unless you want me to operate on you to make you one.”

“I’m going,” said Seweryn, hastily, kissing his mother.  Phyllis also kissed her, and murmured something in her ear.

Małgorzata spat out a laugh which ended on a dirty chuckle.

“Thank you, my English daughter,” she said. “I needed that.” Mariola wondered what she had said, and decided she did not want to know.

She handed her mother the cup of haszysz tea well-laced with poppy draught.  Małgorzata made a face but drank it down.

 Małgorzata was as close to unconscious as could be.

“Aren’t there things which can numb the skin too?” said Mariola.

“You’re thinking of wolfsbane and that’s not a good idea,” said Joanna. “The smallest amount on the inside is deadly. So it’s a bad idea.  I am going to need lengths of gold wire when I say ‘ligature’ to tie off blood vessels.  It’s going to be messy and horrible, and if you are going to pass out, please go away now.”

“I’ll manage,” said Mariola.

“Strap in Mama’s mouth, Papa,” said Joanna. “Władysław, Milena, ready to draw back skin and hold things out of the way.”

“It’s times like this I wish I had both arms,” said Władysław.

“You manage more with one hand’s sensitive fingers than most with two,” said Joanna.  “Besides you are my talisman and you keep me calm.”

Mariola had read all she could on the subject, and there were records from the fourteenth century of successful caesarean births in which mother and baby had both lived. This would be not unlike that, surely. 

 “Mother of Poland be with a daughter and mother this day,” said Joanna, and made the incision. Mariola echoed the prayer in her heart.

It was hard not to feel nauseous at the amount of blood and at the revolting things which were inside the human body.  The obscene looking purple and pink mass though was not like anything in any of the drawings in the books on anatomy which their mother had made and variously acquired, some of which Małgorzata was a little cagey about.

Mariola did not interrupt Joanna, but she noticed her sister crossing herself at the sight. She was barking out commands about holding this, passing that, and Mariola made herself forget the horror, and become an instrument of Joanna’s clever hands. She realised in some shock that Joanna planned to cut out the whole womb and the growths with it as the safest way of removing the growths.

 “Ligature,” Joanna snapped. Mariola handed her the gold thread.

Tying off, cutting away, carefully, methodically Joanna worked, and Władysław mopped sweat from her  brow with a clean towel. The obscene  growth did not seem to be attached anywhere else. Mariola and Milena were Joanna’s hands for her, pinching on arteries, holding away the ureter for her to reach underneath it.  And then Joanna was lifting the misshapen womb out, and washing  out the body cavity with rosemary-infused wódka.

Mariola held the skin for Joanna to close up their mother’s belly, and was in time to ease her sister to the ground as Joanna passed out.

Mama must be lifted onto a narrow hospital bed, and Joanna onto another.

“Papa, Władek, you must just do the best you can to cuddle them when they come to,” said Mariola.

“Yes, my lord,” said Mikołaj, his eyes twinkling at her.

“Oh, Papa!” said Mariola.

Mama was not out of the woods.

“Milena, shall we go to the chapel when we have cleaned up?” said Mariola.

“A good idea,” agreed Milena. “And we will take that ... thing ... to the furnace to be burned.”

A couple of hours later, the Sokołowscy joined Milena and Mariola in the chapel.

“Thank you!” said Mariola.

“The Queen of Poland guided my hands,” said Joanna. “And Mama’s recovery is in her hands.”

“And so we all pray,” said Mariola. “Milena and I can leave tomorrow now without worrying, because either Mama will get better, or God needs her more than we do.”

“Or I made a mistake, but I don’t think I did,” said Joanna. “I am not sure I remember much of it though.”

Mariola slipped an arm through her sister’s arm.

As Małgorzata was a better colour by the next day, Milena and Mariola left with Joachim, who drove over to collect them, without any qualms.