They would still marry of course, she to Alef and Ida to Henne. They would raise children together as though they were their own, as brothers and sisters. The whole thing was arranged, and it was not until Alef and Henne found them in the forest that she realised it was all built on rot and sin. She saw it in Henne’s face, in Alef’s raw anger, and if she was in any doubt they taught her. She longed for punishment, for resolution.

The mountains offered plenty of punishment, and no resolution. She could not find peace without Ida near her. Even time did not soothe it. And God saw fit to punish her again, and worse, giving them to each other, and parting them a second time. The sight of Ida tied at the river almost made her lose her mind. She danced because there was no earthly way to stand the pain of it. She danced and all her mind was a cavern, black and empty. Until here, until now.

She wakes between Ida and a stranger. Nethe would think she is dead and travelling some long road to purgatory but for the girl, who flails and moans. But Ida is still, so still. Nethe takes her hands in hers. If she closes her eyes she could imagine they are alone, lying as they used to under the cover of trees. Ida’s eyes open, and they are black as pits. But she sees her, Nethe is sure, and so that she can be doubly sure, she kisses each of Ida’s fingers, and whispers that she loves her with each one. She does this until the words tangle and lose meaning, and beyond that until Nethe says it only in her head.

And though Ida does not reply, though her breaths are slowing now, her eyes so terribly black, so terribly far away, Nethe knows she hears her, knows her, and knows it to be true.

Nineteen

They spend the days approaching the Feast of St Magdalene in a state of forced joviality. Lisbet feels as though her whole life is halted as she waits: for Plater, for Henne, for Sophey and Ida and Nethe. She carries her belly with the closest thing she’s ever felt to pragmatism, allowing herself now to make small preparations for the baby’s arrival: fetching the stool from the beekeeping shed to use for birthing, ensuring there are always cloths kept clean, coin stored aside should an empiric need to be called. Each act feels like a triumph, a stoking of a tiny flame in her heart: hope, white hot as the comet in her father’s field.

Ida’s children are a welcome distraction, and suddenly it is a full week since Lisbet has visited her dance tree, and longer still since she went almsgiving. She knows Ida would wish her to go, to help those most in need, especially on a feast day, when all around is excess and incense with no thought for the unfed.