The third time, a man named Joss Fritz came to their church, and the priest himself let him speak. He was a thin man, with a quiet voice, and yet there was power to him. Arnd thought him the second coming though that itself was blasphemy. This time Frau Clementz did not even try to stop his going.

Now Arnd is hanged, and her other sons are married, her back is curved as a question and the angels have returned to her. She sees them in the shadows of her empty house, in the dusty jars that once held preserves, in the well long dried up. She sees them in the guilds, in the market. They do not come near her, of course. No one does.

She wears the bracelet though this summer as she walks after the shadows, all the way to the guild, and sees angels scattering among dancing women. She sees them threaded in the hair of one, wrapped around the jaundiced limbs of another.

She closes her eyes, and hears them humming to her. She listens as a man with big, rough hands like her husband’s spins her. She feels the bracelet break, and she does not much mind. Because when Frau Clementz holds her arms up to the sun, she sees angels glint gold beneath her skin.

Seven

Lisbet feeds Ulf and Fluh, and pours the last of the stagnant water in the bucket over their backs. They are steaming, tongues obscenely pink through their yellowed teeth, and she smooths Ulf’s haunches, works free burrs, the dog standing still for her as she cracks fleas between her fingernails.

The bees are out and wafting on the air. She does not mind the work ahead – welcomes it in fact. She collects rosemary, places it into the smoking tray, hooks the bucket onto her elbow and, pulling her collar up her neck, goes to the first skep.

The bees rise from their places, like the flies clogging the forest shadows, and she places her hand lightly upon the top of the first hive. A couple settle, lift, settle, spreading the soft breeze of their wings over her skin, whispering across her fingers.

They’d terrified her those early days. When Lisbet first came to her new home, she thought the skep yard looked like a graveyard, the skeps headstones. But during her third pregnancy, perhaps recognising her sadness, her need, Henne took her to the yard early, dressed her in the thick cotton robe and wicker mask he never bothered with. It was cooler that summer, but still she could barely breathe, barely see.

‘I will show you one, and then you do the same, so they know we are family.’

She rolled her eyes at the thought the bees would know such a thing, but she was under the mask. He went to the closest skep, and lifted the light wicker cone. A small, fast shape whipped across her line of sight, carved into pieces by the wicker. Underneath was the hive, a square block of hollowed-out wood, and more bees spiralled out from the slats in the front.