‘They believe it will work.’

‘You do not?’

‘You are very interested in what I think.’ His voice is soft, his face free of jest. His hands rest atop the table. The bread knife is a fingerlength from his thumb. Lisbet wonders briefly if she should be afraid of him.

‘I should to bed. Elinize saglik.’

She stares at him, and he repeats the phrase.

‘Health to your hands.’ He gestures at the loaf. ‘For the food.’ She looks down at them, at their swollen knuckles, the place where a bee took fright and pierced. Nethe’s fresh-scarred hands rear up at her through the dark.

‘I mean thank you,’ he says. ‘You can cover that over. I doubt Frederich will be back tonight.’

He pushes himself up, and she rises with him, a habit bred into her by her father, who never would have stood for a Turk. She does not want him to go, just yet, to leave her alone in her exhaustion.

‘Where is he? Your friend?’

She wants to hear him say it. To say that despite the Church’s ban on such things, Frederich is in a whorehouse, perhaps lying with a woman at this moment as they stand across from each other, his drummer’s hands pressing flesh hard enough to bruise. A throb of want passes through her, and she blushes with the shock of it, that part of her forgotten lately, as though she were smooth as polished wood.

Eren is watching her, a slight frown pinching his brow. ‘Good night, Frau Wiler.’

He goes past her to her and Henne’s room. She can track him with her ears, knowing the route so well, the creak of each floorboard, the grate of the door on the uneven planks. His tread is unfamiliar though, softer than Henne’s steady thumping. But he does not creep, like her. He only steps lighter.

He has left his instrument on the table. She had forgot to ask him what it was. She taps a string, and it lets out another tuneless hum. She stills it as he did, the wood worn and warm under her fingers. Again she is minded of her platform, and of Nethe, who woke her in the first place. Is she in the forest, the city?

She sighs, and arches her back. The mead has soothed her and the baby both, and she rises to go to bed. Before she leaves she wraps the loaf in cloth, and props open the door with the broom, so Nethe will have an easy passage to bed.

Nine

Nethe is barely able to rise the next morning, her face pinched by tiredness. She did not return until just before dawn.

Lisbet brings a cup of mead to her, and a compress of herbs that Nethe presses to her head, pushing the drink away.

‘What is all this?’ says Nethe. Her hair is bristle-brush long now, growing in straight, thick spikes so the scars are nearly covered.

‘Pity, only,’ says Lisbet, but when Nethe arches her eyebrow she sinks down on the bed beside her. ‘Where were you last night?’