Henne rises from the table. ‘Plater.’

Lisbet bites her cheek – she had forgot to warn her husband of his visit.

‘Wiler,’ says Plater. He is a tall man in his boots, matching Henne and Agnethe for height, though slighter than either, with an almost girlishly lovely mouth, and thick hair the colour of copper. It is beautiful hair, and on his daughter works a mesmeric charm of the kind that makes strangers stop her in the street, but it adds an unnatural gleam to Plater that seems almost devilish.

‘Frau Wiler,’ he nods to Sophey, ‘Frau Wiler,’ and to Lisbet, who drops her eyes, feeling as always the hatred she part inherited from Ida and part grew herself. The room has contracted with him inside.

‘And . . .’ He lingers on the pause, and Lisbet becomes suddenly aware of how still Agnethe is, like a hare in the sights of a fox. She is not even trembling, but she is close enough to Lisbet that she can hear the hitch in her breath when Plater turns his green-eyed gaze on her, steps into the room. ‘Fräulein Wiler, returned from the mountains.’

A soft sound comes from Agnethe, so low Lisbet is the only one to hear it, and again she is minded of a hare, the sudden snuffing out of breath when the jaws snap shut.

‘She is not practised in her voice,’ says Sophey. Perhaps it is in defence of her daughter, but the less charitable part of Lisbet thinks it is more out of deference to the council’s man. Sophey is as Ida marked rude to all, but authority – and the only authority she considers above her own is God’s and so the Church and the Twenty-One’s – makes her as close to meek as a woman of such steel can be.

‘Of course,’ says Plater. His attention is so focused on Agnethe, Lisbet is surprised she does not sink to her knees under its weight. There is something repulsive in his gaze. Lisbet would call it lecherous were it not tempered with distaste. His eyes rake over Agnethe’s scarred head, her collarbones, her hands, balled into fists at her sides. The effect of him is almost supernatural, he so glows with menace. The incomprehensible thought of Ida with such a man hits her anew. ‘You are nearly cured?’

‘Nearly?’ says Lisbet, startled out of her silence. ‘Seven years is spent.’

‘She must pray in the cathedral,’ says Plater. ‘It was an original term – a final supplication in her home city.’

Agnethe gives a tight nod. ‘I had not forgot,’ she says, voice strained.

‘It speaks!’ says Plater. ‘So the priests can expect you soon?’

‘Tomorrow,’ says Agnethe.

‘You can be assured she will complete her penance,’ says Henne hotly. ‘We know the law, we would have ensured it.’

‘He only means you did not have to trouble yourself with attending us in person,’ says Sophey with a sharp glance at her son.

‘That is not why I am here,’ says Plater, with exaggerated surprise as though to suggest Agnethe is so far below his notice as to be invisible, as though he had not stared at her like prey since his arrival. ‘A cup of beer if you will, Fräulein Wiler.’