Lisbet imagines letting her mind drift, her body move in a way it hasn’t since she was a child in the fields, running with her brothers. Her skin smooth and unblemished, her heart unscarred. One of the men catches the old woman’s wrist and jerks her left and right, her head cracking on its stalk, and a grimace crosses her wrinkled face. Her eyes scrunch as she is whirled away, the man braying as he swings her.

Something in Lisbet snaps like a trap. She bares her teeth and pushes back through the crowd, through the gate, away from the women and the men and the stage, away as far and as fast as she can until a stitch tugs at her side and she must stop, panting. She heels her palms into her eyes, hard enough to make sparks skid across her lids. A hand grasps her shoulder and for a moment she thinks it is one of the hired men hearing her thoughts and ready to force her onto the stage. She cries out and pushes away, and Ida’s voice exclaims her name.

‘Sorry,’ says Lisbet, catching her friend’s arm. ‘I thought—’

‘No,’ says Ida, and her face seems shadowed. ‘I don’t blame you.’

She looks back at the stage, at the women whirling upon it, and shudders. ‘They look so . . . extraordinary. Filled with light, or feathers. Don’t you think? Radiant . . .’ Ida lifts her face to the sun, beatific. Her gold hair slips its scarf, and shines a halo about her pale face. She looks almost ecstatic, and it terrifies Lisbet, who snatches the scarf before it slides to the ground, and flings it at her friend.

‘I’m going.’

‘So soon?’

‘The bees,’ she answers tightly. ‘You know they are constant work, and with Henne gone . . .’

She starts to stride away, her heart beating hard, ears ringing. Madness, mania, abandon – all this she can just about hold, just about tolerate. But the rapture she’d seen on Ida’s face nauseates her, not least because she’d almost allowed herself to feel it too, watching the old woman dance like a girl. It is not a game, to lose your mind. Lisbet hasn’t told Ida about Mutti, beyond that she is dead, and now Lisbet is doubly glad of it. She would hate Ida for her reaction to the dancers if she had.

Ida catches her easily, falls into step beside her and Lisbet wishes she were not so large, so lumpen, wishes she could leave it all like the woman on the stage, lifted out of the stink and sound.

‘Slow,’ says Ida softly. ‘Careful, Bet.’

Lisbet wants to cry. It is too hot, and she is done. Even with Ida beside her, she feels entirely alone. ‘I’ll walk.’

‘Of course you won’t,’ says Ida, slipping her arm through Lisbet’s. But as they move against the crowd, away from the beating heels and spinning women, Lisbet sees her friend look back often, until the dancers are out of sight.