‘So that was your rush,’ says Ida, leaning on the door jamb as Lisbet squats and sighs in relief.

‘I do not know how you managed three babies before your father dug you this,’ says Lisbet, throwing a handful of dirt into the pit. ‘The forest is too far off from here.’

‘I did not always make it to the forest,’ laughs Ida, turning to lift the dough she is working and brush the table free of flour. It is so plentiful here she does not even scoop it up to save for later: another benefit of being the miller’s daughter. At her feet Ilse is showing her brother Alef how to tie a knot, and Martin watches and dribbles in a corner while the infant, Rolf, sleeps strapped on his board on the table.

Lisbet trails her fingers over his cheek, soft as a feather, and resists the urge to pluck him up and smell him. She imagines the scent of milk on his skin, woodsmoke folded into his neat muslin, the give of his warm legs between her thumbs. Want needles her chest.

The children take no more notice of Lisbet than Ida takes of them, and Lisbet feels a stab of jealousy. How it must be to bear child after child, so many you can stand to let them play unguarded, sleep unmolested. How it must be to never lose a child before they even breathed. No wonder Ida’s face is so bright and clear, no matter how tired she gets. Such worry breeds age in you like nothing else. Lisbet sees it in her own greying hair, stark against the dark strands, feels it in her chest: a weight Ida will never carry. When a child does not live, it fills your arms with such emptiness they ache.

Lisbet smooths the thoughts from her face, and smiles at Ida, who brings her a bowl of water for her hands and face, and a cup of light beer. It is impossible to resent such a woman her houseful of children, especially with a husband like Plater, and Lisbet does not try.

‘What was that?’ asks Lisbet, splashing her cheeks. ‘Between you and Agnethe?’

Ida shrugs tightly. ‘We haven’t seen each other in years. We are strangers now.’

‘Agnethe and I are more strangers,’ says Lisbet, ‘and she did not look at me so.’

Ida is quiet, knocking the air from the dough with precise, practised punches. When her mother lived, they’d made a business of it, a mill and bakery both. But Plater does not like his wife to make other men’s bread. Only his own.

‘So Henne must go to Heidelberg?’ asks Ida.

Lisbet nods, and with great effort puts down her cup. She does not want to leave this cool room, thick with the smell of babies and flour, and go out into the heat, to the city. But she has already left Agnethe long enough with her tormentor.

‘I pray his journey will be successful.’