Chapter 208 The Thirst For Revenge

• The silence of the tiny, old convent in Montenegro, nestled among the hills, was only broken once a week, when the vendors arrived.
• Long before they appeared, the sisters heard them: the creak of wooden wheels on the rocky track, the slow clop of donkey hooves, men’s voices low and rough, carrying strangely in the mountain air. The scent came next—smoke from their pipes, leather, and the sharp tang of sheep’s cheese wrapped in waxed cloth.
• The courtyard filled with smells and colours, the convent does not grow itself: sacks of flour dusting the air in pale puffs, bundles of onions with their papery skins rustling, sticky honeycombs oozing gold from wicker baskets. There was the earthy musk of goats, the salt tang of dried fish laid out on cloth, the sweetness of dried figs pressed into cakes.