‘I’m not accusing,’ says Agnethe, holding out her bloodied palms. ‘Only asking. What is it, Lisbet? Did you do all this?’

Lisbet chews her lip. She feels afraid, as she was taught to be afraid in childhood, of words like pagan, like wise, like woman, like witch. But Agnethe comes closer, and her face is open curiosity and hunger. ‘It is beautiful. The ribbons. And that –’ she points to the platform, ‘did you do that?’

Lisbet nods at last, and allows herself a smile when Agnethe whistles admiringly. ‘Why?’

The lump swells again, and Lisbet drops her gaze to her belly, hands coming reflexively to cup under it.

‘A dozen,’ says Agnethe softly. ‘If I counted, there would be a dozen ribbons. It is your tree. For them.’

‘And for myself,’ says Lisbet. ‘Somewhere safe.’

Agnethe nods. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says again. Her arms twitch, and she looks as though she will embrace Lisbet. Instead she comes to stand closer.

‘Your hands,’ says Lisbet.

Agnethe looks down distractedly. ‘Oh.’

‘You should wash them.’

Agnethe reaches out to Lisbet, and she resists pulling away. Her hand is swollen with its scars, slick with blood, and Lisbet can smell her damp, dank breath, like stale water, as though Agnethe has come drowned from the river to find her. ‘Lisbet . . .’

Lisbet waits. Agnethe is about to tell her something, perhaps in exchange for her own confidences. She turns to look at her sister-in-law, but she is searching the ground, the tree, and will not return her gaze. Lisbet feels something slipping away, reaches out to grab it. ‘You can tell—’

‘Can I come here?’

‘What?’

‘To this place,’ says Agnethe. ‘When it all . . .’ She gestures at her head, and Lisbet understands, the need for solitude, for quiet. ‘I doubt church tomorrow will offer much escape.’

So she had noticed the looks, the whispers in the city. Lisbet is learning not to discount her sister-in-law – that even when she seems elsewhere, she is watchful. Even when she seems stone, she feels everything.

‘I won’t touch anything,’ she hurries on, mistaking Lisbet’s silence. ‘But I understand, of course, if you want to keep it for yourself, for your . . .’ She gestures at the ribbons.

Lisbet hesitates, but how can she deny this bleeding, wet-cheeked woman? ‘Yes, Agnethe.’

Agnethe seems to wilt with relief. ‘Nethe. It’s what my friends used to call me. What Henne used to call me.’

There is a swarm of sadness there, packed close but containing immense, humming depths. Nethe. It suits her better, the precise, percussive hit of it.

Lisbet nods. ‘Yes, Nethe. Come whenever you need.’

Six

Their church is a low affair, more wood and daub than stone, remnants of the old kinds of worship chiselled away at its edges so the whole place has an unfinished air. Pater Hansen, their priest, matches it well. He is old, and stooped, and has a worn grandeur to him, high cheekbones and silver eyes, his skin folded like melted wax. Some priests dress as though they were princes, but Pater Hansen wears the same vestments every year, patched and darned, the precious thread dulling, and this wins him respect among his congregation, and derision from those better-heeled.