‘He must go, Mutter,’ says Agnethe. ‘You cannot give up all you have built.’

‘You of all people should know,’ says Sophey with a snap of anger, ‘that to set against the Twenty-One is to set against God. And see where that got you.’

Agnethe goes very still, as she had in Plater’s presence. Lisbet guesses it is a trick she mastered at the abbey. She imagines this tall, marked woman moving through dark halls in high mountain air, learning to turn herself invisible. Is that how to account for sin? To attempt to scrub yourself from the world alongside it? Certainly Sophey and Henne have acted as though Agnethe did not exist in these seven years, and it was easy enough for Lisbet to join them in this fiction. She has not spared so much as a prayer for Agnethe. Lisbet remembers the bread, the strong hands holding her up, and feels a thump of protectiveness toward her new-found sister. She will know her. She will show her she sees her.

‘Agnethe is right,’ she says. ‘There is no choice. We must fight it.’

Sophey sucks air through her gapped gums as Henne returns with his knapsack slung over his shoulder, and his high pattens strapped over his shins, shedding dirt.

‘Do not leave now,’ she says. ‘If you are to go, we must prepare bread and blessings for the altar at Heidelberg, and tomorrow you can pray with Agnethe at the cathedral.’

‘There is no time—’

‘There is always time for prayer.’ Sophey softens almost instantly, and places her hand on his shoulder. It sits curled on the expanse of mended cloth, twisted with sore bones and rough flesh. ‘If you must go, please go with a full day’s light ahead.’

‘I’ll be travelling all hours,’ says Henne. ‘We have not the coin for taverns and rest houses.’

‘Then you shall sleep in churches,’ says Sophey firmly. ‘Joss Fritz is coming south, everyone says so. It is not safe in the dark.’

Though not two years ago priests were stabbed by rebels in a church, and though Henne is more likely to join the revolt with its mission against the Twenty-One than meet it, he grunts his assent, and slings his knapsack onto the freshly scrubbed table.

‘Tomorrow then,’ he says, as though it was his plan all along. ‘First light, Agnethe?’

‘You must to the mill,’ says Sophey, ‘to tell Plater. Perhaps—’

‘Agnethe can wait in the cart,’ says Henne impatiently.

‘And me,’ says Lisbet, desperate to be out of the stifling house and away from Sophey’s agitation. If they are going to the Metz mill she can see Ida. ‘I will come too.’

Henne sits to discard his pattens, unstrapping them from his clogs. ‘Lisbet can take some candles to the market, some sealing wax. I’ll prepare them now.’

‘I can do it—’ starts Lisbet, mind already soothed by the thought of the pressing shed, the thick encasing smell of wax and honey, but Henne is out the door. Sophey rounds on her at once.