But what Lisbet saw outside the church was not the traces of friendship, but enmity, at least on Nethe’s part. What cause would she have to hate Ida – what cause would anyone have? It reminds Lisbet that before her arrival is an expanse of blankness that feels now like a conspiracy: a deliberate attempt to obfuscate, to keep her ignorant.

She searches the bank, letting her mind drift to this small task, loosing her confusion for the moment. She selects a pebble for its smoothness, its thin band of quartz, and walks through the murmuring forest to the dance tree. When she enters the clearing she sniffs the air like a dog, checking for intruders. But the tokens are there, the ribbons still tied, the platform bare.

Lisbet lays the pebble at the base of the trunk. It is warm from her hand, and she closes her eyes a moment, gives it the pulse of her blood before she lets go.

•

Sophey allows her absence to go unremarked, gesturing for her to pass the bucket of honey Lisbet has wrested from the trough. Her expression makes it clear she welcomes no discussion, and she flinches at every sound from outside, anxious for Agnethe’s return. They spend the afternoon sweeping out Henne and Lisbet’s room, opening the shutters wide in the hope the air might stir to some degree of freshness.

For all Sophey’s complaints, she will not give anyone reason to call her an ungenerous host. She bakes a loaf with the last of Mathias’ fine flour, mixes fresh honey into the dough. She tells Lisbet to keep two beeswax candles back from the order, and stores the tallow ones on a high shelf, out of sight.

It is dusk, and Lisbet is setting out water for the bees when she hears voices, Nethe and Ida returned from almsgiving. She starts towards the road, but the voices are angry, raised as hackles. Lisbet draws back into the shadow of the skeps, and sees Ida’s horse halt at their boundary, Nethe stepping from the high cart, her face blotched red, and Ida tripping after, tears falling freely down her pale face.

‘Agnethe, I swear by all my sons—’

‘Don’t speak to me of your sons,’ spits Agnethe. ‘Or of anything you have.’

‘Please,’ says Ida. ‘I had no choice. Believe me.’

‘There was a choice. Don’t think your marriage saves you. There is no remedy for it.’

‘Then so be it,’ says Ida. ‘Let me at least make amends with you.’

She grasps Nethe’s hand then, and Nethe flinches but does not draw away. Even in the low light, Lisbet fancies she can see Nethe’s indecision.

‘Agnethe!’ Sophey’s voice is a vice, the door banging open before her.

Nethe pulls her hand from Ida’s and walks quickly across the yard and past her mother, who slams the door behind them. Ida stands bewildered, her hands open. Lisbet steps from the skeps, opens the gate.

‘Ida—’

Her friend jumps, bringing her hand to her mouth. ‘Hiding, Lisbet?’