‘My apologies, Herr Wiler.’ Ida’s voice is higher than usual. Her hands tremble. She is nervous, and will not meet Lisbet’s eye. ‘Ilse mentioned only Lisbet.’

‘And was meant to fetch your husband,’ smiles Lisbet. ‘But no matter, I had hoped to see you.’

Henne shrugs. ‘It is all well with me, Frau Plater. I have seen your hair many times as a child.’

‘Quite so,’ smiles Ida, but her brightness falters when she turns her attention to Agnethe. ‘Hello, Agnethe.’

There is a charge like the moments before a thunderstorm: that unbearable ache when the air itself strains to break apart. Lisbet can hear the dry click of Agnethe swallowing, and when she looks into her sister-in-law’s face, it holds such loathing it makes her flinch. Plater grips Ida’s wrist and pulls her behind him, eyes fixed on Henne.

‘You took your time,’ says Plater, as his wife stands massaging her wrist.

‘A day, you said,’ says Henne. ‘It is the morning.’

‘Well observed.’

Lisbet is only dimly aware of their exchange. All her attention is on Ida, on her sore wrist and downcast eyes, and on Agnethe, her hooded hostility, which seems less focused on Plater than on his wife. While Plater and Henne jibe feebly, there is a real and silent struggle occurring between Ida and Agnethe, and Lisbet cannot fathom why.

Henne climbs down from the cart to unharness the horse, strapping his pack to its flank.

‘It is a wasted journey,’ sighs Plater with false pity. ‘But I admire your belief.’

‘Goodbye, wife, sister,’ says Henne, ignoring Plater. He hesitates before mounting the horse, his foot already in the stirrup. He looks from Lisbet, to Agnethe, and his gaze is not what Lisbet is used to – it is softer, pleading almost. ‘Agnethe—’ he begins, and then seems to think better of it. He swings himself up.

‘I thought you were to pray at the cathedral,’ says Lisbet.

‘Tell my mother I did so.’

And then he is gone, kicking the horse into an instant gallop, the creature that bore his sister from the mountains now carrying him to a city where their futures will be decided. Lisbet cannot feel the true weight of the moment, for the ache in her bladder has reached a new pitch, and she slides along the cart’s bench.

‘Are you to town?’ asks Plater. ‘I will ride with you. The council must be informed their possession of the bees will be delayed a few days.’

‘There will be no such possession,’ snaps Lisbet, before mastering herself. ‘Ida, might I have a drink?’

‘Of course,’ says Ida, flinging herself into grateful movement, approaching the cart and holding out her hand to help Lisbet step down. ‘Agnethe, would you like—’

But Plater hisses, a curt and warning sound, and Ida leaves her sentence unfinished, leading her friend inside. Lisbet waves briefly at the boys strewn around the room before walking immediately through the cool and ordered house to the pit behind.