‘I imagine we will barely see them,’ says Lisbet. ‘Didn’t they say they start tomorrow? And they play until dark. We will all be abed.’

‘Musicians. A foolish plan. Those physicians.’

Her muttering drops as there is the creak of a floorboard from within. The tall one, Frederich, stands by the table. Without his drum he seems even slighter.

‘Might I take supper? We have travelled all day.’

Sophey pushes the broom into Nethe’s hands and goes to see to their guests.

•

The first days the musicians make as much of an impression on the house as spiders. They find only traces of them, in the crumbs not swept from the table, the shadows that move under the door.

Lisbet is able to brush off their proximity like cobwebs, more bothered by the bees and the business of sharing a bedroom with Nethe. Her frantic praying has ceased, and she eats at every meal, but there is still a restlessness to her, an edge that makes Lisbet’s own anxiety rise. Their distance has remained, the walls around her reinforced by what Lisbet had seen of her exchange with Ida. And, though it is churlish, the fact she has not asked to go to the dance tree even once makes Lisbet feel betrayed, as though she has opened that most sacred place to find it stomped over and forgotten.

Sophey is the worst affected by the strangers. The lines of her face are more deeply etched, the shadows under her eyes drape to her cheeks.

‘I hope they do not expect us to launder their clothes,’ she spits, as she scrubs the men’s plates with a horsehair brush, and changes the water between. ‘I will not touch them.’

Lisbet knows her mind is full of tales of Turks escaped from slavery and murdering their masters. But Eren is not a slave, and Lisbet is sure he is not vicious after seeing his daftness with the dogs – though Lisbet knows a man can stroke a dog and strike a wife.

At church there are stories: the woods are full of the undesirables the Twenty-One have removed from the city. Herr Furmann’s goats were taken, herded in the night out into the forest, and dams have been found forced, rivers following new paths into the trees. Lisbet sees no evidence of them at the dance tree, protected as it is by the boggy ground and distance from the city, though she has taken to walking there only in the middle of the day, as though heat might keep malefactors at bay.

On the third night of the musicians, Nethe speaks her name. Lisbet lies still, waiting. She closes her eyes as Nethe shifts in the bed. She can smell her breath as she leans over her. Then the weight lifts as Nethe stands, and, before Lisbet can decide what to do, she slips from the room.

Lisbet listens carefully: Nethe is moving through the house, to the door. The dogs make no noise. Lisbet hesitates a moment. She feels for the lock of hair, but it is gone from Nethe’s pillow. She heaves herself upright. She follows Nethe’s path on bare feet, wincing as the door squeaks. Nethe has left the door to the yard propped open with the broom, spilling moonlight onto the table. The bread stands untouched: the musicians are not back yet.