The little guest house was barely bigger than a shed. It was meant to provide some extra privacy, not an actual place to live. It and the others were big enough to hold a bed, table, a few chairs, and a small lavatory. None of them had any place to cook, though the little fireplaces could probably be put to that use in a pinch.
This one’s door was painted sunny yellow. Jadwiga knocked and then pushed through without waiting for a response, because it was unlikely that one would come. The man inside did not speak when he did not have to.
He was sitting at the table with his back to her, hunched over a stack of papers, scribbling furiously while the fingers of his right hand twitched as though operating an invisible abacus. His dirty-blond hair hung down into his face, curtaining his eyes.
