The Running Boar Inn, Styria, 1723
"They say old Violeta is a witch." The officer watched the peasant girl who danced on one of the tables, her bare feet swirling around and around. "Or a vampire."
His companion - a local prostitute, the young girl of fifteen - looked bored and fingered the lilacs which filled the green bottle. Third person at the table, a youth of eighteen, smiled.
"All old women are witches." He reclined against the back of his chair. "They hate youth and beauty, especially spinsters like she is."
The opening of an inn door made everyone to turn toward the sound. Music stopped.
A woman who entered the inn was in late fifties and marvelously elegant with air of authority. Her hair, partly covered by the hat with long lilac mantilla, was still auburn, and the black cape, lined by blood-colored satin, hang from her shoulders. A red rose was pinned on the breast of dark velvet gown. Her eyes were color of amber jewelry in her ears.
A driver stood behind him, holding a basket covered by white linen.
"Stop spewing filth like broken sewer pipes," Violeta Meister said, watching directly to the young boy who had insulted her. "Children and youth are opposite of purity and cleanliness. They are extreme moral pollution."
The youth turned red but dared not to protest; instead, he seemed to shrink. They both knew that the worst crime in this place was being an old woman, the inability to stay young and sexually attractive, but Violeta was different; she had not only money, she had the power of fear.
"I know how they - and you - get your pleasure." Violeta looked around with disgust and contempt; a flower in the sewer. "I came to search Bachmann."
A middle-aged peasant rose from one table and approached the old woman gingerly.
"I have money and food to your wife. It is not charity; she is a hard-working woman and deserves it."
Bachmann just nodded, too scared to speak, and took the basket. Violeta turned around and walked out of the house, with the driver behind him.
The door was closed.
Music began again.