They were listening to her speak from one of the three overflow rooms where the Brighton Women’s Tech Group had put up screens. Outside, two women’s singing circles, from Southwark and Southall, were feeding the camerawomen and reporters vegetable samosas – they’d set up a street stall with a pan of boiling oil, and a tent behind, where a woman was rolling out dough and stuffing it with spiced potato, pinching it closed in a few neat movements. Because of the judge’s injunction, only women had been allowed into the islands these past five days. The local media had covered it for weeks. But for the summing up, there were journalists – women only – from all over Britain and beyond. The London Women’s Orchestra had sent a string quartet, who’d been giving free concerts throughout that week in the abbey (Mira Bai, Hildegard von Bingen, Meredith Monk). Through the doorway of the media tent, Zoe contemplated the new mural of Eva that had gone up overnight, on the wall of the library, painted by a street-art collective from Bristol. Eva looked even more messianic than usual, with her arms outstretched, and coloured birds flying up from her breast. Zoe thought of the real Eva, the one with cool palms caressing her cheeks, skin which smelt of cinnamon, the balled-up tissue, pen and packet of wine gums in every pocket of her coat. She felt a flutter of loss. Eva was everyone’s; every woman in the islands had a licence to quote her and eulogise her, and to speak of Eva as if they’d loved her, as if she’d loved them.

Eva the icon, Eva who had catalysed this movement, was still here. But the Eva Zoe loved was gone.

JUDGE: She hoped to inspire other people to make the very difficult break with the patriarchal line – through their marriages, jobs, and choices. She knew that something would manifest, and she had prepared for that. It is my belief that, legally, Eva Harcourt-Vane was justified in acting as she did. She believed that what needed to happen was the healing of all our ancestral lines. What’s at stake is our very existence as humans on this beautiful planet.

There was a gasp from the women around her. The judge was raising her voice as she spoke, over the muttering from the public gallery, and the small guttural sounds of wonder.