Near the table, a lady tried to sell a repoussé, silver, dove-shaped loving-cup. Perceiving Christopher Ulwing, she curtseyed deeply.
“With your permission, I am Amalia Csik, from the Fisherman’s bastion.”
She wore a hat like a hamper. Everything on her was faded and shabby. Anne noticed that whenever she moved a musty odour spread from her clothes. In the shop nobody took any notice of this. All these people were dressed differently from her grandfather.
“Even the little children are dressed in a modish way,” the lady said disparagingly. “Of course, everything in Pest is different from what we have in Buda.... We, here in the castle, are faithful to our own ways, thank God. Are we not, your reverence?”
The castle chaplain nodded several times his yellow, bird-like head.
“I hear,” said the lady, “that they have started a fashion paper in Pest.”
“Yes, and they print it in the same type as the prayer books,” grumbled the chaplain.
The lady gave a deep sigh.
“Notwithstanding that the devil himself is the editor of fashion papers.”
“Of all newspapers,” said the official censor of the Governor’s council from beside the stove.