‘I know who he was, I’m not simple. He’s a ways younger than me is all.’

‘And his day-brother, Jan, did you know him?’

‘How could I?’

She was being pedantic, of course, but she had a point. I let the silence stretch, though made it clear my attention was still on her. She could only manage so long before she said, ‘I told my sister not to bother with Jan. He was too up himself, that’s what I told her.’

‘She didn’t listen?’

‘Does your day-brother?’ she said. She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Jan acted like working up at the manor made him special, different from me and mine.’

‘But he wasn’t.’

‘And he was too young,’ she said. ‘Didn’t matter how pretty he was.’

I leaned forward. ‘Did your day-sister become involved with Jan Harsson?’

‘No! Ain’t you been listening? I told her what’s what – just took her a little while to see I was right. But nothing ever came of it.’

‘I see. My apologies for keeping you.’

She wasn’t too gentle with the door when she left. I made myself eat, though I was too distracted by the image of a handsome, healthy Jan Harsson to take any satisfaction from it. And besides, the beef was poor.

21st October 1721

Alexsander was nervous. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that from him; when we were both younger men, that was certain. His palms were sweating and he had to clear his throat twice before he found his voice.

He was standing in one corner of the common room, Mr Hennig having moved some of the tables to give him more space. He had his fiddle, and a small lute was leaning against the wall. I didn’t know where he found that. He also had the attention of everyone.

Perhaps that was why he was nervous. In Esteberg he had grown accustomed to indifference. During the first song he played he looked about the audience and, unsettlingly, found them looking back. He made more mistakes than he cared to count. Still, they clapped.

As per Mr Hennig’s request, Alexsander avoided the tragedies and solemn songs. He ran through the jaunty tunes he knew, choosing a number typically played at harvest festivals. These seemed well received, and he tried not to notice when people did get up to leave. He took his break with a hearty lunch – better meat than I’d been served – and a mug of ale. I’d not known him to drink ale. I could only assume it was part of some desire to experience customs and produce local to Drekenford, before his wickedly demanding night-brother took him away once more. Wickedly demanding – that was how he described me to a half-listening Mr Hennig. It was one of those inexplicably vivid and distinct memories I had of Alexsander’s day.

As the afternoon wore on Alexsander returned to his corner. More people sat listening, eerily attentive. He noticed the painter sitting at a table with two women, who smiled encouragingly. The nerves of the morning were gone, and he played well – as far as I could tell.