Someone laughs uncertainly, and then Nethe screams again. It catches the bound women, snares Plater around the neck and jerks their attention up. Lisbet sees his snarl, his motion at the nearest guard who peels away and makes hurriedly for the bridge. She sees Ida, her mouth opening in shock, in despair.

Plater orders the guards to push the women forward. Again, Nethe makes that inhuman, guttural sound. She stamps her feet on the stage, bends double with the effort.

‘Mein Gott,’ says Frederich.

The guards look uncertain, frightened – none of them move. Another scream, and this time it has an echo, and another. Around Nethe, the women are bunching closer, still spinning and thumping their feet. The hair on Lisbet’s arms rises.

The guard Plater sent for Nethe has reached the stage, but he makes no attempt to arrest her. From her radiates an energy vivid and sharp as lightning: Lisbet’s teeth ache with it. The next time Nethe opens her mouth, it is as if she has a hundred voices caught in her throat, flying out like locusts. All the women on the stage scream as one and many, the power of it physical, visceral. They seem possessed, full of righteous, riotous fury.

The crowd around them shifts uneasily, and some of the men begin to shout, calling some of the condemned prisoners by name.

‘Beatrix!’ ‘Claire!’ ‘Helene!’ Beside her, Sophey calls, ‘Ida!’

There is a commotion on the bridge, a surge as some of the watchers break away from the bank. Lisbet sees them: dark clothes, intent faces, as though they are merely waiting for a signal. Some of them dart through the crowd and across the river, towards the bound women.

Plater is shouting now too: Lisbet can see the ropy tendons of his neck knotting tight. But he is drowned out by the dancing women’s screams, their cries like a call and answer. The guards at the water’s edge back away as the bank is stormed by a group of men. Lisbet sees the glint of a knife.

‘Rebels?’ shouts Frederich, but Lisbet cannot be sure. They seem like avenging angels, mercenaries. The men shoal about the women, pulling them clear. The guards dissipate, repelled by the hysteria. Lisbet holds tight to Frederich, to Sophey, as they are buffeted closer to the river. She keeps her eyes fixed on Ida’s bright hair as she is hauled in by the mob, reclaimed.

‘They are freeing them!’ Frederich’s eyes burn with a dark delight. ‘They have them, look, Frau Wiler!’

As if Lisbet could look away. She watches agape as the women are held aloft, their faces dazed, limbs dangling as though they were already drowned, and borne over the bridge like effigies. She loses sight of Ida, of her blonde head.

‘Where is she?’ Lisbet cries, her voice lost to the racket. She spins around, searching, and then sees the women being lifted onto the dancers’ stage. The crowd lets out a collective cheer, a bray of triumph, as one of the men goes between them with a knife, slicing the ropes that bind them together.