When he at last stills his fingers, stopping the tune in full throat, and sets aside the lute, she knows his mind. He reaches out, his fingers still marked by the strings, and brushes her tears from her chin, her lips. His fingertips are rough with calluses, but his touch is soft, exquisite soft. He traces down to her wrist, and rubs his rough thumb at the tender skin there, his hand so dark against her she might have melted away into the night.

He kneels up and into the space between them, and he kisses her once on each cheek. He kisses her again on her forehead, firm and slow, as though smoothing out creases. And finally she tilts up her face to his, for him to complete the sign of the cross, the most holy gesture, as their lips meet gentle at first, and then hard.

There is no hesitation then. The time for that is long past, and when she lies back on the well-worn planks he comes with her, clasped to her side, their lips not lifting until his hand moves between her legs and she gasps. Even then, there is no pause, no moment of uncertainty or shyness as his fingers part her and find her slick and open.

She grasps for his shirt, to feel his skin against her skin, and there is no thought but want as she rolls to her side and he pushes inside her, her back pressed close to his chest, his heartbeat hers and hers his, no words but each other’s names, repeated like prayers, like blessings, as though they are new, the first ones ever to speak each other truly, as pure and clean as beeswax fresh pulled from the hive of the first garden, at the beginning of everything.

None dancing

The city reels. It feels enormous and empty, like a heavy cape draped around Daniel Lehmann’s shoulders. He does not pray so much as he should, but he does pray for Hilde, on her way to the shrine, with all his might.

He climbs atop the empty stage, the canvas stained brown with piss and blood, the wood beneath cracked by hundreds of feet. The dancers have left such wreckage behind. Fifteen people a day died, Herr Plater said with relish, lifting a cup of spirits to the heavens as he swayed on his feet, and in this heat Daniel is not surprised. They are buried in mass graves, trenches dug alongside the city walls. He shudders. Thanks be to God Hilde was taken to the shrine. The blessings are already falling on them.

The plague is done, and he is glad and saddened by it. But there is more he must do. He has a purpose now, as Herr Plater’s man. A calling. In return, Plater has promised salve for Hilde’s feet, beets and honey for their table, milk for Gunne and beer for the rest. More than that, prayers, and a place in Heaven for all who serve him, for they are serving the Twenty-One, and so God.