‘Aye, and my dignity. One is more easily replaced.’

‘Do you need food?’ she asks. ‘There is bread, honey—’

He waves his hand. ‘Sleep only. The one thing the city cannot provide.’

His coarseness dismays and delights her. She straightens her spine, thrusting her belly out to create some distance between them. ‘You know where the bed is.’

His grin deepens. ‘I do. Your bed, is it not?’

‘And my husband’s,’ she says, gathering up the wrung-out sheets. They will need to breathe in the air to keep them from becoming stiff, and she wishes, for the hundredth time this summer, for even a whisper of a breeze. ‘Dream well, Herr Frederich.’

She walks away to the clothing line, knowing he is watching, and does not turn until she hears the kitchen door swing shut. Heat stings her collarbones. She is foolish, to speak so with the drummer. But her belly protects her. She cups it, marvelling at its size, the exact proportion of it, like a planet or a piece of fruit, so exact. Part, and apart.

From inside the house she hears a snort. Nethe has recovered herself then. Nethe’s laugh comes again, and Lisbet goes to the door, presses her ear against it. She can hear the burr of Frederich’s voice, the echo of Nethe’s. Is this the answer for Nethe’s tiredness, for Frederich’s absence? Her cheeks colour at the possibility. Were they together last night?

The thought is alluring, dangerous. It fits with Lisbet’s theory about an illicit baby, that such behaviour was what Nethe was sent away for. She is foolish to risk punishment again.

Lisbet sighs, gathers the sheets. She desires Henne still, wants him now, this instant, though he is miles away in Heidelberg. But he would not touch her even if he were beside her, both of them abed. Not with the baby in her. She thinks of going to the pressing shed, sliding her fingers into herself. She has nearly forgotten that part of her existed, but now, suddenly, it is all she is, aching to the point of pain.

Ulf trots up to her, butts his nose into her palm, and it pulls her back. She wipes her hand clean, scratches his ears.

‘Stupid dog.’

•

‘Do you know a man named Plater?’

Lisbet is exhausted, the darkened well of the kitchen welcome. Her sore hands are sticky with honey, wax under her nails that she skims with a paring knife. Nethe and Sophey retired to bed hours ago, but Lisbet found herself making excuses to stay in the kitchen despite her tiredness. Now Eren has returned with a clay pot, wafting the scent of fennel and meat into the air. She sinks down across from him, suddenly starving, when he asks her with worry in his voice.

‘Regrettably.’

‘I thought you would not be gladly acquainted,’ says Eren. ‘He sent his regards.’

‘And what else?’ says Lisbet, nerves knotting her belly.

‘Nothing,’ says Eren soothingly, ‘but he did say to apologise for the kind of guest he sent you.’