“I’m sorry, Agnet.” I scrounge for something to console her. “I hear the midwife believes he will survive.”

“His pride keeps his heart beating,” she says. “Last night, when the pain abated, he told me he would not let a woman murder him like this. He even vowed revenge.”

“Sit down,” I say, as if I am the host here. She drops into a chair. “You must be exhausted. Is there anyone who can help you?”

Another tortured cry rises from the sickbed. It makes me cringe, but Agnet betrays no reaction. I suppose she is numb to it by now.

She rubs at a callous on her cracked hands. “How could I ask someone else to endure that?”

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

The fire pops softly. A spindle falls from a shelf and rolls to our feet. Agnet picks it up and turns it idly in her hand.

She lowers her voice. “I heard he tried to kill you. That he used you for bait. Is that true?”

“He needed to lure her close so he could deliver the killing blow.”

She says nothing, turning the spindle over and over. I don’t know why I am making excuses for him. When I reach for her hand, she recoils like I’m leprous.

“He knows,” I say.

“He knows what?”

“He knows.”

Her eyes finally come to life, dilating with terror. Her chapped lips curl into a sneer. “How? Did you boast?”

Her gaze is too hot, and I cannot meet it. “Our initials,” I tell her. “I threw it into the sea. What are the chances that it would wash up at his feet?”

The spindle becomes still. Her eyes drop to the floor. “He’s been acting strangely of late. Accusing me of being unfaithful.”

“But, you haven’t. That was all before you married.”

“Do you think that matters to him? His pride will not accept it.”

The moaning from the sickbed does not stop. I stifle a wicked urge to bark at the man to shut up. I doubt he even knows I am here.

“Father keeps some brandy hidden away in the tabernacle. He thinks no one knows. I’ll fetch it. It might ease his pain.”

Agnet slumps, letting her hair fall to hide her face. If there are tears, I do not see them. I only hear the hitch of a sob catch her throat.

“What am I going to do, Kaspar? He cannot even walk, let alone fish. We’ll starve. I am chained to him.”

She does not pull away this time when I take her hand. How rough they are now, worked to the bone. One fingernail is purple.

“We will find a way,” I tell her.

“Stop it. That foolishness will get us both killed.”