‘It must be,’ says Lisbet, a little harsher than intended. Prayers are not enough, if they do not work. Sometimes Ida seems not to understand this.

Rolf squalls, and Ida lifts him distractedly to her breast, shrugging down her sleeve in a well-practised motion, her shoulder creamy and plump, her breast veined blue. Lisbet’s own are the same, but even now she cannot be certain the child she carries will ever drink from her.

Ida props Rolf on her hip and picks up the dirty bowl, the cup, continues to knead the dough while he feeds. She is so natural, so effortless with the children it makes Lisbet’s heart twist. Had even one of her children lived, she doubts she would have such ease. And what a life here, despite her husband, with fresh-milled flour daily, a well to draw cool water from, and more than that: Ida herself. The person she is, so beautiful and kind. If Lisbet did not love her, she would hate her.

‘Must you go to the city?’ says Ida.

‘We have candles to trade, melting as we speak I would wager.’

‘I wish I had the flour to give you for them here, but you know Alef will not allow us to sell from the mill anymore.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you sure you would not like to stay? Hold Rolf?’

She nods down at the suckling infant, but Lisbet doesn’t even allow herself to imagine his warm weight in her arms. She grips the edge of the table, smooth and hard and nothing like a child. ‘I promised to accompany Agnethe to the cathedral.’

‘For what purpose?’ asks Ida, again with a feigned lightness.

‘She must pray there to complete her penance.’

‘And then it will be at an end,’ says Ida, and there is a sudden drop in her voice, an envy almost. Rolf has turned his face from her nipple, showing it large and dark pink as the inside of a flower. His mouth works as he searches for it.

‘Are you all right, Ida?’

Her friend looks down almost absently to her whimpering child, and stoppers up his mouth with her breast again.

‘Of course,’ says Ida, kissing her cheek. Lisbet smells the baby, the milk, and nearly swoons. ‘Until church, then.’

Four

Though Plater is a narrower man than Henne, he spreads himself across the bench of the cart so Lisbet must practically sit atop her sister-in-law, Agnethe’s hard hip digging into her fleshy thigh. Agnethe had leapt from the cart the moment Lisbet emerged from the house, with the pretence of helping her up, but Lisbet guesses it was to avoid having to sit beside Plater. He wears gloves despite the heat, his forehead sweating, and the smoke-and-leather smell of him is stifling as the incense burned in church.

As they fork right to the city, the forest begins to fall back like a retreating army. At the crossroads there is a cage suspended from a post, empty and glinting. The metal would be scalding under skin. Lisbet saw a woman in it once, bridle about her face like a vice.