She is suddenly afraid again.

‘Frau Wiler—’

‘Lisbet.’

‘Lisbet, please. I am not your master, but please do not come here in the dark, off the path. I have seen people here, when I come late from the city. I must carry a knife.’ He shows her the bone handle at his hip. ‘And there are stories. What makes some dance makes others dangerous. The empirics talk of hot blood, swollen brains. It is throwing people off balance. They are not the kind you should meet so late and in the night. Even in the sun they are dark sorts.’

‘I had to—’ She swallows. ‘I had to walk.’

‘Not alone, then. If you’ll allow it, I can walk with you. I can walk before you, or behind, far enough off so you do not have to acknowledge my presence. We do not have to speak. If you must walk at night, I will go with you.’

She holds out her arm. The night has made her judgement slippery as Frederich’s and she brushes the coarse cloth of his shirt. It throws off scent like mushrooms brought up fresh from the dirt. ‘If you will not be too tired, perhaps.’

His beard twitches, and she smiles in answer. It is improper, impossible, and yet they will do it.

They walk home without another word, and when Lisbet creeps on silent and swollen feet towards Nethe’s bed, she finds it empty.

One hundred and sixty-three dancing

The first dance Edith Bucer ever went to was for a boy. Jan Drescher. He had very long, light eyelashes and strong calves, a slow, broad smile. She wore her hair down for the first time since her bloods, tucked wood violets behind her ears and crushed more at her wrists. Her brothers teased and called her hure, but her mutti nodded her permission.

The drums and pipes were loud and living as though they played in a hall, not the open fields. The fire leapt higher than Jan’s shoulders, cutting a carpet of dirt clear of the frost. Edith walked a wide circle of the dancers, came to stand close to Jan’s group. Jan Drescher handed her a cup of beer, stronger than any she had before. It warmed her more than the fire, and Jan looped a long, muscled arm around her waist and pulled her in too close, span her too fast. She screamed with delight and fear, the whites of his eyes glinting in the firelight. The next dance was the same, and the next. He danced like a man possessed, and he returned again and again to her.

Before they could marry, he chased a promised fortune to the city. She was pregnant and in love and happy to follow him. He set her and the baby up in a room in a house on a narrow street near the gaol. She did not like the smell from the river, the sounds from the sheep slaughter yard, that there were no shutters, that the baby wheezed for breath every morning, but Jan wished to stay. He went dancing without her, she could smell smoke and sweat on him, but he wouldn’t let her leave, nor would he spin her, or kiss their child.