‘But that is news of the best sort,’ says Lisbet. ‘You are free, you and Ida both.’

A tiny sound, a swallowed sob.

‘Nethe?’ Lisbet reaches out her hand again, and Nethe flinches from it. ‘What has happened?’

Nethe looks at her, for the first time since sitting, and Lisbet reads it in her face, in the utter anguish written there. Suddenly she does not want to hear, does not want her right mind back, does not want her son in her arms, something so pure and lovely beside something so wretched.

‘Ida,’ she says. ‘She is dead?’

Nethe’s face crumples. She throws herself down beside Lisbet, and Lisbet gathers her in, feeling her shake, her hot tears falling on her shoulder. Between gasps, Nethe tells her how she came to herself on the cart, a day into their journey. How Ida was beside her, her breathing shallow, as though winded. How her eyes were black and unseeing, but how she seemed to know her. How Nethe held her as her heart slowed, and then stopped. How Nethe fitted herself along Ida’s length until she felt her body cool and forgot where her skin ended. How they buried her in the graveyard at St Vitus’ shrine, and she was given every blessing owed to her.

‘I do not understand,’ moans Nethe. ‘Is it God’s punishment? Why did He take her?’

Lisbet knows it was not God, but poppy. The poppy Karl gave her, that Ida swallowed in anticipation of drowning, to save herself the pain. The poppy that clenched her heart and sank her, just as it had Mutti. She cannot tell Nethe, how close she came to happiness. How cruelly it all has ended, despite.

‘No,’ she says. ‘It was the dancing. Better that than drowning, Agnethe. You saved her from it.’

‘I thought I would be caught,’ she says. ‘I thought only to show her I was there. I thought we would be drowned together. Then the dancers started screaming, and it was not me that moved my feet. I was elsewhere. I was flying.’

‘I saw it,’ nods Lisbet. ‘You were no falsifier. It was true abandon.’

‘She is dead. Oh God, how can she be dead?’

‘But you are alive, and she did not have to go without you by her side.’

Lisbet twines her fingers through Nethe’s and presses her cheek hard to hers. Her grief is soft and her son’s mouth is sharp as it sucks on her. Lying there, with her newborn son and newfound sister, she feels more whole than she ever has. She thinks Ida would forgive her that.

There is more to learn, more loss. Dear, sweet Ulf is dead, his burns too painful for him to be allowed to live. The bees are burned or else fled to the forest. Eren is vanished, wanted for Plater’s murder. Lisbet tries to tell Nethe, many times, that he is wrongly accused, but she stops her.

‘Don’t speak it, Bet.’ And Lisbet finds she does not need to. So long as Eren stays gone, she need not protect him. Because she cannot cry openly for Eren she cries for the dog, and Sophey calls her soft and feeds her more vinegar.