Lisbet knows she should not judge a vessel of God by the scent of him, but she does. With a baby inside her she can smell everything to the point of exhaustion, and Pater Hansen is all beeswax, and incense oil, and old, old sweat. Humanity and divinity – as it should be, she supposes.

Ida is in the front pew, her daughter and sons beside her. The mere sight of her head neat in its scarf, the familiar frizz of flaxen hair about her temples and the curve of her cheek when she dips her head to her hands is a comfort to Lisbet, who could barely sleep last night for dreams of her mother, for waking fret over the bees and their fate.

But for the first time, Lisbet feels she has an ally at the farm. Other than Ida and the bees, she has been without company the six years she’s shared Henne’s home, but after their visit to town, their happening across each other at the dance tree, she and Nethe seem to be drawing closer together.

And Nethe needs a friend even more than Lisbet. The tension between Ida and Agnethe is clear, and her appearance at church caused something as close to a ruckus as the overheated congregation could muster. From Lisbet’s accomplished eavesdropping, no one seems to know the charges that sent Nethe to the abbey, only the fact of her sin and subsequent penance. Herr Furmann, the main benefactor of the church and with the ear of the Twenty-One themselves, approached Nethe before the service, all scented silk and waving wrists, but Nethe sidestepped him, edging closer to Lisbet, who used her bulk to shield her from further advances.

She understands their curiosity – there is little to talk on other than the weather, the certain descent of Strasbourg into a deeper circle of Hell. Even the war against the Turks has lost its sheen, made dull by constant attrition. Pater Hansen’s final remarks do not help Agnethe’s plight, for they take on a wholly different bent from his usual guttering out.

‘A word on the occurrences in the market square,’ he says, dragging his eyes from the pulpit to affix somewhere above and to the left of their heads. Lisbet is slow to understand what he is referring to, but Sophey goes rigid, her jaw set. ‘I know there has been some talk on the woman dancing. I wish to reassure you that it is an instance of womanly weakness only. We know they do occur—’

His eyes drift cloudily over Agnethe, who looks determinedly back.

‘– and the Twenty-One are keen to settle the facts of it.’

At this, Plater stands as though Hansen had called him by name. The priest blinks, his mouth open to continue, but Plater turns his back on the pulpit and takes up the priest’s thread without a moment’s deference.

‘The matter is already at an end,’ says Plater, ‘but it is true the council is against superstitious talk spreading. A woman took up dancing about a week ago, in a conspicuous spot beside the cathedral. She remained there every day and most nights, stopping only to fall into a sleep of sorts, whereupon she was taken home. But she returned each day, and following careful observation our syndic Sebastian Brant and the Twenty-One decided she must be taken to Drefelhausen.’