‘Wait. One moment.’

She climbs down from the cart before it is fully halted. If Sophey calls after her, Lisbet doesn’t hear it as she makes a fence of her elbows to protect her belly, and pushes toward the stage. The tide of people carries her, and she must sidestep to release herself from them, crouching under the stage itself.

The smell is new wood and piss. She looks directly up, and mud from a stamping foot crumbles over her face. She edges out in front of the stage, clinging to the wooden strut like it is a raft.

Frederich’s face is grim, and he keeps his eyes trained at the sky as he slams his palm against the stretched skin.

‘Frederich,’ shouts Lisbet. ‘Frederich!’

He is made deaf by his own drumbeats. She strains to reach his boot, and hits his ankle as hard as she can. He steps back and looks down, eyes widening when he spots her.

‘Frau Wiler!’ He squats so their faces are level. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You must come with us,’ she says, ‘to the gaol.’

He frowns. ‘Why?’

‘I know you have a lover,’ she says, and Frederich’s face closes over. He makes as though to stand.

‘No!’ cries Lisbet, yanking him down with such force he falls to his knees, his drum clattering. ‘I don’t care. I only want to see my friend.’

‘Frau Plater,’ he says seriously, in a voice that tells her Eren has informed him of the whole sorry business. She is glad: she does not think she could recount it without weeping.

‘He will not be able to help,’ says Frederich. ‘He is a guard, only.’

‘Please,’ says Lisbet. ‘Please come with me. If it were you—’

Frederich shoots her a warning look.

‘I do not threaten you,’ Lisbet hurries on. ‘I only mean wouldn’t you at least want someone to try?’

Frederich’s jaw works. He glances at the surrounding musicians, stamping and playing as before them in the tanners’ guild women dance themselves to death. ‘It will not make a difference.’

‘Please.’

He sighs and unloops his drum, hands it to one of the fiddlers. The man places his instrument down and ducks his head through the strap of the drum. No questions, no hesitation, he begins to play it. Frederich wrinkles his nose.

‘No mind for a rhythm,’ he says as he jumps down from the stage, and Lisbet leads him to where Sophey sits in the cart. A queue has built up behind her, other cart drivers throwing insults, but she sits there stolidly, the crowd moving around her like a river about a rock.

‘Nice hat, Frau Wiler,’ says Frederich, eyeing her swaddling as he climbs atop the sacks of flour. Lisbet hauls herself back up beside Sophey, who leans in and hisses.

‘The drummer?’

‘Quickly,’ says Lisbet. Sophey clucks her tongue, at the horse and Lisbet both.

The gaol’s stone rises sheer from the Rhine, only a marshy bank beside it, leading to a wooden platform where boats dock and people are drowned in the brown water. Upriver, the sheep slaughter yard spills guts and blood into the river, the banks discoloured. As they cross the bridge Lisbet sees white hands fluttering from the tiny, barred windows set in the rock, like flags of surrender.