She’d recognised it instantly for what it was: a dance tree. A doom tree. A relic of the pagans who had their churches open under God. Mutti told her some still stood, and in her latter days sent Lisbet out across the comet-cursed field to search the copses edging their land in the hopes of finding one. Mutti had lost hope in empirics and prayers by then, reaching for some ancient magic to cure the constant ache of her feet, the blood pooling beneath the skin like a malignant bruise.

Lisbet failed. But here, too late for Mutti, she has found one. Now the branch that held the bees is empty, stopped up with tarred sticks to prevent them returning, and that colony blows about their skep yard, bringing the sweetest wax. Henne must not fail in Heidelberg. It would break her heart.

The ground is scattered with leaves and her gifts. She brings the babies magpie offerings and places them at the base of the tree: pleasingly patterned stones, found feathers, flowers pressed and weighted with pebbles. She used to be superstitious about it, making deals and promises with each token – If I find a seven-petalled flower, this baby will stay. If I can match this stone’s white band with another, my baby will live. But repetition can ruin such resolution, and now she places no especial importance upon the way and what she lays in the shadows.

Today she fixes the feathers found in Agnethe’s room in the bark of the tree. They are fluffy and soft as baby hairs. She clears the ground of fallen twigs and leaves, placing the empty snail shells down. The hush of the canopy overhead makes it silent as a church, and she bows her head as she approaches the altar of its trunk, rests a hand lightly there. It is miraculously cool, and she pulls her hand away with great effort.

The steep, ladderlike steps are dark. They would be cold under her feet, lichen and moss and age making them slick. She would be stupid to climb so large, even with the dragged branches and planks laid across to make the platform steady again. She’d come the day she was certain this baby was inside her, two missed bloods, stood with her head pressed to the mended railing, praying.

She allows herself to lie on the platform for hours after each tied ribbon, but now there is only time to circle the trunk. It is enough to remind her that Sophey, for all her conviction and resentment, cannot take the simple truth of those ribbons from her, of the place she has kept aside in her heart.

•

The next day seems to dawn hotter than any other. Henne whistles tunelessly, intent on the road, packed hard and unforgiving by weeks of sun, its potholes treacherous. The mule and horse struggle to match their paces, and the cart lists constantly to the left, towards the tall trees. Agnethe sits stiffly on Lisbet’s other side, the siblings immoveable and solid as gateposts. Between them, Lisbet sways, belly pressing hard on her bladder, already regretting her resolution to see Henne on his way.