‘I did not mean—’

He shrugs. ‘Where would I go? I have lived in Alsace since I could speak. It is not easy here, but it would not be easy there. I know only a few words.’

‘Elinize saglik,’ she says, uncertainly.

‘You remember that?’

‘Badly.’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Though I likely say it wrong. When we came here, my parents taught me to speak your dialect, sent me to study letters. My mutter said it was a waste for a musician. Her father was an empiric.’

‘Why did they come?’

‘For better,’ he says. ‘Isn’t that why anyone goes anywhere? Isn’t that why your husband is gone to Heidelberg?’

‘Not me,’ she says. ‘I came here because of Henne.’

She realises too late it sounds as though she means her marriage was not for the good, but the traitorous thought is out and she lets it hang. She has never been anywhere someone has not bid her go.

‘From where?’

‘South. My father farmed.’

‘And your mother?’

‘Dead,’ she says, and feels a deserter. But Eren has startled her with his questioning, his seeming genuine interest in her answers. She squirms under his attention, and deflects it.

‘Have you travelled outside Alsace?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Frederich and I were in France before this summons.’

She wrinkles her nose at his mention of the drummer, and Eren chuckles, a soft sound. ‘You have him wrong.’

‘He seems . . .’ She searches the trees for the word. ‘Coarse.’

‘He is soft as fruit inside. He has had hard times. We take care of each other. We are all each other have, now.’

‘He is not married?’

Eren laughs softly. ‘No.’

‘He is handsome enough.’

‘He has not the temperament.’

‘There are many sorts of women,’ she says. ‘I’m sure one could suit him.’

‘If you are thinking to set him with your sister—’

Now it is Lisbet’s turn to laugh. ‘It could be a good match.’

‘Are you?’

‘I am already married,’ she taps her belly, smiling.

‘A good match with your Heinrich.’

Lisbet chews her cheek. She does not know how to answer, has never talked of such things even with Ida.

Eren shakes his head briefly. ‘I’m sorry, Frederich must be making his mark. I am not usually so direct, but . . .’

He trails his fingers in the water, and Lisbet understands. She feels it too, the safety of their exchange. It was the same with Ida when they had first met at church, both their faces pale with the morning sickness of their first children: the recognition of kin. It makes her bold.

‘Were you? With your wife?’

He rolls his head on his shoulders, a fluid movement that Lisbet could not replicate without cricks and clicks. ‘We were. Young, married before our parents willed it. But we knew each other, from the moment of meeting. It was simple, to love her. She died with our first child.’

Lisbet places a protective palm over her belly and the baby shifts, presses on her, and she realises he has not mentioned her condition once, though it is all people have lately seemed to see of her. But he never looks at her stomach, or asks after the baby. He talks to her of her, and of him, and it is bewildering.