She glances at her sister-in-law. Her eyes are even more startling up close, and her gaze is clear and direct. Lisbet’s tongue stirs dryly.

‘Hello, sister,’ says Agnethe, and her voice is low and hoarse with disuse. ‘I hope you are well?’

Lisbet nods, knows she should return the enquiry, but it feels impotent in the face of Agnethe’s scarred and naked head, her gaunt cheeks, and then Henne is stepping between them and they follow him inside.

There are eggs steaming on the scrubbed wood of the table, their shells speckled. Lisbet’s stomach growls at the sight, and at the smell of the bread fast proven in the sun and baked by Sophey that morning with Ida’s gift. Henne takes his seat, and Lisbet drops gratefully onto the bench, before remembering that two of them must now share it.

She slides along, skirt catching on the splinters rent by the long-dead tabby mouser. She tugs it free, and Agnethe sits carefully beside her, back straight as a rod. Lisbet’s belly means there is a clear foot of air between them and the table, but Agnethe doesn’t seem to mind, only bends her long, sinewed neck to pray. Lisbet sees older, deeper scars, disappearing down the back of her smock, radiating from her spine like cut wings. Henne coughs, and Lisbet too clasps her hands, and Sophey leads them to their Amen.

Once they are portioned their bread, their egg, Lisbet must try to match Sophey for pace. She could eat double, thrice her helping, could eat the whole of Henne’s heaped plate, but Sophey’s grim delight in her gluttony slows her. She tears the crusty bread into pieces, to measure her consumption. Beside her, Agnethe picks up the still steaming egg, holds it as though it were cool as a river stone and peels, careful at the membrane, the egg emerging whole and perfect. Lisbet knows it must hurt her, can see her pale fingertips darkening.

‘That’s a new trick,’ says Sophey. ‘You were never gentle before. Did they teach you to peel eggs on the mountain?’

Agnethe smiles smally, her eyes fixed on her work, though Lisbet notices her slide a jagged shard of shell beneath her fingernail.

Sophey snorts. ‘Taught you silence and all. Time was she never shut up.’

Agnethe presses her fingernail down and Lisbet sees blood rise to rim it, but her expression does not change.

‘Well then,’ says Sophey into the quiet. ‘Well.’

She cracks open her own egg, and Lisbet follows a beat behind, finding the yolk chalky and pale. They are lucky the hens had any to give – their offerings are more and more meagre lately. She thinks longingly of the twist of salt Ida brought, but Sophey has it stowed with their coin and the length of silk kept once for Agnethe’s dowry and now for some unknown purpose.

Agnethe’s touch is hesitant as she pulls apart the bread. She places it in her mouth quickly, as though it might be snatched from her. Lisbet hears a low rumble of pleasure from Agnethe’s long throat. She stuffs bread into her own mouth. It is as good as it smells.