‘Ida!’ she shouts. ‘Agnethe!’

But it is too late. Even as the women break apart, the figures rush into the mud. Not the Devil and a demon, but as dangerous. Lisbet knows them the moment they reach Ida and Nethe. Daniel, his cheeks red raw and weeping from bee stings, his skinny fingers made fat by poison. And behind him, unblemished but more grotesque, is Plater. His face is gleaming, triumphant as he grasps Ida by the hair, and pulls her from the trunk.

‘Hure,’ he shouts. ‘Sodomite. Heretic.’

Nethe roars and raises her fist to strike Plater, but Ida yells.

‘Go, Nethe, please!’

‘Bitch,’ snarls Plater, face to face with Agnethe. Hatred mingles with want on his twisted features. ‘I should have beaten you to death.’

‘It’s the closest you ever got to me, Alef.’ Nethe matches his height and his fury. ‘Let her go. She doesn’t want you, any more than I do.’

‘Agnethe,’ moans Ida. ‘Go.’

‘Quickly, boy,’ says Plater, his hand snarled in Ida’s hair. ‘Gut her.’

Daniel has his hook in his hand, the same one he used to part the dancers on the guild stage. His eyes swivel in his poor, swollen face, and Lisbet sees his hesitation. Surely he will not? He is not so quickly made a monster – it takes manhood to do that. His pause at last calls her to action. She hurries forward and places herself between Nethe and Daniel.

‘Do it!’ shrieks Plater.

‘Daniel,’ she says. ‘Don’t. You cannot take it back.’

His breathing is laboured – he must have swallowed a bee, its stings lodged in his throat. She hears his wheeze and wants to gather him in her arms.

‘Now, boy!’ orders Plater. But Daniel’s wheezing becomes more pronounced. His bloated eyelids droop, and Lisbet steps closer to him, knocking the hook aside.

‘It’s all right, Daniel,’ she says, in the same tone she used to calm the bees after he ruined their hives. For a moment, she thinks he will let her hold him, but Plater roars and takes a step forward. Ida shrieks as he drags her, and this makes Daniel raise his hook as though he is a puppet on a string. Lisbet turns and shoves Nethe away with all her might.

‘Go,’ she hisses, chest heaving. ‘Go!’

Nethe’s face is stretched in a silent scream. She looks more rageful, more hopeless than any being Lisbet has ever seen.

‘I’ll take care of her,’ says Lisbet. ‘Go, or it is all for nothing.’

Force then, a shunt of wind as Plater shoulders past Lisbet, and she overbalances, falls against the trunk. He grabs Daniel’s hook, and Ida calls at Nethe to run once more.

Panting, wretched-faced, Nethe picks up her skirts. Without a backwards glance, she flees into the trees.

Ida is still caught, her hands gripping her husband’s wrist, the sort of surrender in her body that shows this is not the first time he has treated her so roughly. Lisbet kneels over her friend, trying to free her. Ida is whimpering.