The woman shrugs, losing interest. ‘The Twenty-One will decide.’

She points at two men standing across from them. Lisbet can see the taller one in profile: a straight nose, a pronounced chin. Copper hair. She feels disgusted resignation. Plater, again.

‘Here at the Twenty-One’s bidding,’ says the woman, her voice a whisper. ‘They won’t let this go on much longer. More people come each day to gawk.’

‘I didn’t know about her,’ says Lisbet.

‘Still here though, aren’t you?’ The woman licks her sun-cracked lips. Her tongue is purplish and swollen.

Lisbet looks at the dancer. Her head has tipped back, like Agnethe’s in the cathedral, her face blotched as though burned. Her eyes are open and rolling, her throat convulsing around irreconciled words. Lisbet wants to wrap her in a blanket and rock her. The dancer’s hands flutter.

‘Please, Magret,’ moans her husband. He is sobbing. ‘Please God. Stop.’

Lisbet’s baby kicks. Faintness shudders through her, and in answer, she turns and pushes back through the crowd using her elbows, propelling herself to the edge until she breaks out and gulps air, though it is sour and gritty. The stain on her skirt seems to have spread.

Mathias is still at his stall, and his pale eyes flick to her though she is not certain his sight reaches so far. She tries to regain her breath, to tidy her hair, scraping back the strands that have plastered themselves to her forehead. The woman’s hair seemed to have a will of its own, vipers taken root in her scalp. She feels her mother’s hair in her palms.

‘Are you all right, Lisbet?’

She jumps, but it is only Agnethe beside her, her hand hovering uncertainly over her shoulder.

Lisbet nods, recovering herself.

‘What is it?’ frowns Agnethe, and turns her blue gaze to the crowd. Lisbet does not want to have to explain, have to wait while Agnethe goes and sees for herself what is at the centre of the gathering. She wants to leave. She pulls desperately on Agnethe’s sleeve.

‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Someone making a spectacle. Please, can we leave?’

‘Are you unwell?’

‘Yes,’ says Lisbet. ‘Please.’

‘Of course,’ says Agnethe. She turns briskly from the crowd, and Lisbet follows her back to Mathias’ stall. Agnethe shoulders two of the sacks without effort.

Mathias leans into Lisbet. ‘It isn’t natural,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen her here the past week. Every day the same.’

Lisbet squints at him, catching up. ‘The dancer?’

‘Strange, is it not?’

‘What’s strange?’ Agnethe has returned, but before Mathias can answer Lisbet speaks.

‘It is done, Agnethe’s penitence. She prayed at the cathedral.’

Mathias’ misty eyes shine, and he seems to chew his tongue to repress some strong emotion. ‘Your prayer was peaceable?’

‘It was,’ says Agnethe, though to Lisbet it had looked anything but.

‘It is done, then,’ says Mathias in mimicry of Lisbet. ‘It is lifted. How do you feel?’

Agnethe bends to the final sack, scooping it into her arms, and offers him a sad smile before walking to the cart. Lisbet waves farewell to Ida’s father, and contemplates the climb into the cart with dismay. Her legs still tremble from kneeling on the stone, and she braces herself against the wooden sides.