Plater yanks the mule to a halt. He throws down the reins, and jumps lightly into the packed dust, looking around as though he owns all he surveys. A crowd of boys jostles, palms upstretched, and Plater shoves them aside, as though he was not once one of them.

‘I wish you well with your prayers,’ says Plater, before shouldering away in the direction of the city hall. Lisbet feels Agnethe wilt with relief.

While Agnethe fetches out the candles, Lisbet hands a coin to the smallest boy, telling him to watch the cart. She recognises him as Herr Lehmann’s eldest, Daniel. The others disperse, cursing, and Daniel stands proudly by the mule’s head, his hand on the reins. His fingers are all bone, his pinched face hollow at the cheeks. Herr Lehmann sells his children’s teeth to merchants and empirics, despite Ida’s entreaties not to.

She recovers herself. ‘Come then, to Mathias first, else the candles will melt.’

Lisbet’s dress is too long and drags in the muck. She sees no animals, and wonders, not briefly enough, where all the shit has come from.

They reach Mathias, wide as his daughter is narrow, stooped now and with long nails on his little fingers that he uses to scoop up the flour and show the fineness of the grain. His stall alone is well stocked – a benefit of Plater’s influence as well as his own hard work. He doesn’t watch them approach, his attention turned towards a gathering of people at the centre of the square. Even when they halt before his stall, his watery blue eyes are turned away.

‘Herr Metz?’ Lisbet says gently. He used to be a quick man, but in the years Lisbet has known him he has dulled, the sharpness of his brain wearing smooth as a grindstone. Though his body remains strong, his sight and mind are failing both.

He turns his filmy eyes upon her. ‘Lisbet?’ He sounds dazed.

‘Yes, Herr Metz, it’s me. I’ve brought a candle, if we might have two sacks of flour?’

‘Yes, yes,’ he says, lifting his hand to pat her gently on the shoulder and bring her into focus before he bends to the knotted sacks. But as he does so, his fingers tighten. His eyes are wide. When Lisbet follows his gaze though, it is only Agnethe, standing uncertain with the bundle of wax in her arms.

‘You . . .’ he gasps, ‘you.’

Agnethe takes another small step toward him, and holds out the bundle. He takes her hand, slowly and carefully as Lisbet might trap a wayward bee, and draws her even closer, so his rusting eyes can lock her in their gaze. To Lisbet’s surprise, they fill and spill over.

Mathias takes the candles and lets go of Agnethe’s wrist, and it falls limply to her side. He turns away, wiping his cheeks, but there was no mistaking the tears.

‘You are returned,’ he says, the shake clear in his voice. ‘Did they treat you well?’