‘Have I upset you?’

‘No. It’s all right. What was her name?’

‘Aysel.’

‘It’s lovely.’

‘It means moonbeam, the light that comes from the moon.’

A lump rises in Lisbet’s throat. A dead wife, a dead babe, a common enough story. Is this why he is so kind to her? Of course. It is nothing at all to do with her, Lisbet. She could be any woman with a baby inside her.

She dips her hands in the river. The water sluices over her wrists, calming her hot blood.

And then, laughter. Not hers, not Eren’s, but familiar enough to make her catch and hold her breath. She straightens, checking Eren is in sight, and sees he has extinguished the torch, and his hand is already on the handle of his knife. Ulf stands, barking, but it is not his guard-dog’s growl. He is up and running before Lisbet can whistle him off.

The laughter stops, and Nethe’s cry of surprise reaches them.

‘Ulf? Down.’

It is not because it is Nethe that Lisbet motions for Eren to hide. It is not that which makes her crouch back into the undergrowth, grateful for her dark scarf. It is because of who follows Nethe out from the trees, with Ulf trotting obediently by her heels. It is because it is Ida.

Lisbet feels like a child playing at hide-and-go-seek. She has the same sour taste in her mouth, the same fear of discovery as Ida and Nethe break onto the bank in their long skirts, Ulf sniffing about them.

‘Hello?’ says Ida uncertainly. They look about them, but her hiding place holds. Lisbet cannot see Eren at all, only darkness between the trees.

‘Must have run off,’ shrugs Nethe. ‘Ulf, home.’

She whistles thinly after the command, as Lisbet taught her, and it sends Ulf bolting for the farm, the promise of a bone to gnaw in his hopeful bound.

‘Quickly,’ says Nethe, pulling on Ida’s hand. ‘It’s faster this way.’

Nethe tucks her skirts up into her undergarments, and to her shock Lisbet sees Ida do the same, and follow Nethe across the river, clambering onto the opposite bank and out of sight.

Eren emerges from the trees like an apparition. The knife is still in his hand, and its glint catches Lisbet across the eyes. She stands blinking after her friend and her sister-in-law, barely hearing Eren.

‘Who was your sister with?’

But Lisbet is already lifting up her own skirts, careless of Eren, of her bare legs streaked with dust and sweat, of the slick river stones as she stumbles across the slow river and after Ida and Nethe.

‘Frau Wiler?’ he murmurs, but Lisbet is all dog, sniffing after the women. They are heading west, parallel to the church, moving towards the main road to the city. It is foolishness to stumble after them through dangerous woods with a musician trailing her, but she must see, must know that she really has witnessed them together, laughing, holding hands like the old friends they once were.