She collapses at the trunk of the dance tree, pressing her palms to her eyes so hard she sees stars. Her body and mind are a confusion of colour and heat, and between her legs there is a throb that matches the couple’s cries, the beat of women’s feet on wood.

‘Lisbet?’

It is Nethe’s voice, sober now, and close. Lisbet opens her eyes. She had forgotten, in her fury, that Nethe knows this place, knows how to get through the brambles, and now her sister-in-law stands looking at her, Ida swaying beside and looking up at the ribbons, mouth agape, and behind is Eren, scanning the token-strewn ground.

‘Get out,’ says Lisbet, but her voice is small, and serves only to make Nethe step closer.

‘You shouldn’t run,’ says Nethe. ‘Not so close to your time.’

‘You should not give me cause to,’ spits Lisbet. ‘Behaving like a hure, an imbecile. You and Ida both.’

‘And you?’ says Nethe hotly. ‘Out at night with a Turk? What cause have you for that?’

‘I am asking the questions!’ shouts Lisbet. She sounds petulant, but cannot control it. Why has she brought them here, to the one place she and her children can be safe and alone?

Ida drops to her knees and shuffles forward so Lisbet can again smell the drink on her breath. ‘Where are we, Bet?’

Lisbet feel tears coming. She is so tired, so hot, so heavy. She wants Ida to hold her.

‘It’s her tree,’ says Nethe, and her voice has lost some of its scathe. ‘For her—’

‘No,’ says Lisbet. ‘How dare you.’

‘You’re the one who led us here,’ says Nethe mulishly.

‘Did I ask you to follow?’

‘For what?’ says Ida. ‘Your tree? What’s that?’

She points at the platform, and Lisbet snipes, ‘I don’t reckon your husband would be happy you knowing.’

‘Since when have you cared what my husband thinks,’ says Ida, sounding suddenly solemn. ‘Since when have you thought I care.’

Lisbet takes a breath. It shudders through her ribs, catching in the back of her throat. ‘It’s a dance tree. A pagan place.’

‘What are those?’

‘Ribbons. I put them there. For . . . for my losses.’

‘For your babies?’

Lisbet looks up to the strips of fabric, to the sky shredded and star-strewn through the branches, and nods. Ida’s hand snakes back into hers. It has none of its usual coolness. It is sticky like a fevered child’s.

‘Forgive us, Lisbet,’ says Ida. ‘Don’t be angry.’

Lisbet has not the energy to maintain her fury. She breathes out in a great rush, and squeezes her friend’s hand.

‘Why were you there?’ asks Lisbet. ‘With her. Why did you dance?’

Ida drops her pointed chin. ‘To disappear.’

Lisbet snorts. ‘You think that was disappearing? Making a spectacle of yourselves?’

‘We were but two of many,’ says Ida.

‘You are the council man’s wife. She is the penitent. You think yourselves anonymous?’

‘My husband was meant to be elsewhere,’ says Ida. ‘I thought I knew his appointments, his movements.’