She looks away only when the city walls loom, and she hears the drumming.

A hush seems to crush down on everything, so that all there is is that particular sound, rhythmic and somehow indecent. Lisbet knows instinctively that it is not made by a drummer’s hand. Even if there were a thousand Frederichs they would not sound like this.

‘Are you sure?’ asks Eren, and when she hesitates he shakes his head again. ‘We can go back.’

But she has come this far, has put him in danger, has followed Ida and Nethe into this spectacle and now she must find them. She slides from the cart, landing awkwardly, and turns towards the sound.

‘I want to see.’

The cart has brought them before the horse market, and the high walls seem to thrum. Lisbet can feel it through her feet, in her pelvis. The entrance is thronged but she knows that if she is to find Ida and Nethe, this is where they will be. The whole night, the whole world seems angled towards the guild’s entrance, towards that earth-bound and unearthly sound.

Eren takes the lead this time, forcing a path inside, and Lisbet keeps close behind, the dry straw cracking under her feet. The stage is high and wide, leaving only a thin rim of space for the observers to stand and jeer and shout and pray. And atop it are the dancers.

At least a hundred women, crammed onto the canvas-covered wood, their feet beating a firm tattoo so loud and ceaseless it is like a storm gathering itself. They spin and whirl and leap, and every one of them is sweating, shining, radiant.

Eren motions for Lisbet to stay where she is, nooked into the stalls where the brood mares are normally quartered, and indicates he will search the crowd. She nods, barely able to rip her gaze from the dancers. This is different from last time, from the old women spun by the strong men. There are no men at all on the stage, no musicians even, for where would there be room with so many women dancing? Lisbet realises that all she can hear are women’s voices, raised and whooping, like she has come across a crush of sprites or witches. She has never heard or seen women in such abundant numbers. Their clothes slip from their shoulders, but there is not the lewdness of last time. Here in the dark, lit by torches and with the scent of horse and sweat all about, they seem heavenly, divine, licked in the gold slick of the fire.

Two dancers part, and at the centre of the stage, Lisbet glimpses a woman spinning another, their hands close about each other’s waists. Her breath spikes.

It is Nethe and Ida. Lisbet grips the wood of the stall, digging her nails in until they splinter. The dancers close in a surge, swallowing the women once more, and Lisbet climbs onto the stall door, her belly resting atop the gate. From here she can just see Nethe’s short hair, her head tossed back in a shout of delight, head and shoulders taller than the others.