She claps her hand in excitement. “Yannai and his men will pray, indeed. But not here. At the very gateway of prayer”
Leonora drums her fingers on the table. The men are talking, talking, talking. A thornbush of words. The only part that makes sense is the guard that they are placing around the factory: three Muslims with broad shoulders and heavy fists.
They have to be Muslims, for she wants a full report of any suspicious activity, and a Jew may decide to protect his brother, or will ask a sh’eilat rav before divulging what he has seen, by which time she will have missed her chance to act.
Outside, the sun is sinking, and the room is gradually growing dim. The day is dying, and all she can think of is getting out, escaping the room. She wants to shrug off the details of their arguments and brush the rancor off, so her heart can rest, and she can think things through. As the servants knock and enter, lanterns in hands, Leonora stands.
“Let us end this for the day.”
The men look up at her.
“Yishai?”
He nods. “Yes, honorable Mama.”
“You will ensure that the guard is set up this very evening.”
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