‘Henne,’ says Sophey weakly, ‘what shall we do?’

But Henne only takes his knapsack from its hook, and strides from the room. Sophey trails him, leaving Agnethe and Lisbet in their stunned silence.

Agnethe collapses onto the bench beside Lisbet. Her whole body is trembling, and Lisbet wonders what it is about Plater that makes her so afraid. Does she too love the bees, as Lisbet does, feels the threat to them as a threat to her own person, her own happiness? The thought sparks apprehension, a possessiveness she reminds herself she has no right to feel.

Then she spies Agnethe’s face, the hard-set line of her jaw, and there is no terror there. Instead, her eyes shine with anger. It strikes Lisbet that perhaps she was wrong – that perhaps Agnethe is no hare, but rather the fox.

Three

Blood thuds in Lisbet’s ears. She used to be careful of such high feeling in her carryings, but it is impossible to quell her fury, her fear. She picks up the broom and her hand trembles.

‘I’ll see to that,’ says Agnethe, her face emptied. ‘Sit.’

‘I do not need to sit,’ says Lisbet, leaning on the table. Agnethe takes the broom firmly from her. Though Lisbet cannot stop her she remains on her feet, an act of defiance, as Agnethe sweeps up the broken pieces of the plate and throws them onto the banked fire. The heat flares briefly, like a demon dog licking their faces.

‘Was he always this cruel?’ asks Lisbet.

Agnethe doesn’t look at her. ‘He grew into it.’

‘Ida remains herself,’ says Lisbet, though she feels the same spike of ownership as she had about the bees. ‘Ever kind, ever constant.’

Agnethe sweeps the floor vigorously, hands white against the handle. Lisbet watches her a moment.

‘I’ll wager this is not the welcome you had in mind.’

A sharp snort. ‘It is exactly as I expected.’

It is said with just enough wryness, and Lisbet allows herself a smile despite the wretched news. She takes up a scrubbing brush, skimming crumbs from the table onto the floor for Agnethe to sweep.

‘He is set on going to Heidelberg.’ Sophey stands in the doorway, looking at them both accusingly as if it were them who ordered it.

‘What other option has he?’ says Lisbet, her hands cramped about the brush. ‘We cannot lose the farm.’

‘We would not lose the farm,’ snaps Sophey. ‘Only the bees.’

Lisbet throws the brush down with a clatter, nerves singing with strain. ‘The bees are the farm, our livelihood.’

‘Before you arrived,’ says Sophey, ‘we had less than half the skeps, and the rest beets. It was good enough.’

‘I know what you had,’ mutters Lisbet. She is a frayed length of twine, unravelling. Agnethe’s return, Plater’s visit, and the baby hanging from her ribs have broken her patience down to nothing. The bees are her anchor in this place, in her life where she drifts without a child to keep her steady. They alone – their care, their needs, their inscrutable patterns and wildness – keep her sane. To lose the bees, after so much loss, would be to lose her mind.