But Ida goes quiet and Nethe is vanishing again, turning solid and immutable. Lisbet feels a fury so large it turns her cold. She grips at the earth, trying to ground herself.

‘You speak of salvation, of blessings. You spent seven years in silence and now you caterwaul in the midst of a mania. Do you hear yourself, Nethe? Because as someone who does, who listens, I can tell you you are a fool.’

Nethe remains impassive, and Ida makes a small noise in her throat.

‘Tell me why you were dancing. Tell me why you were sent away.’

Another silence, into which Lisbet irrupts.

‘Tell me! Why will you not? Why am I being kept outside it all, always tested and found wanting?’

Lisbet catches up a clod of dirt and throws it full at Nethe. Too slow she registers the weight, the hard centre of the pebble she selected for its band of quartz. It strikes Nethe hard above her eye. Ida scrambles to her feet, rushes to stem the trickle of blood running from Nethe’s eyebrow. She must reach up, almost on her toes. She presses her sleeve to the cut.

Nethe barely reacted to the blow, but now she takes Ida’s other hand, the one not pressed to her brow, and makes a cup of it. She rests her cheek against the open palm, and raises her eyes to meet Lisbet’s. It is a movement practised and simple as a kiss.

For a moment, Lisbet does not understand. But then she sees Ida’s expression as she looks at Nethe, lit with such love it feels indecent to witness. It is the same beam she had dancing, but Lisbet mistook it for wildness, for delirium. And it is, of a sort, for what that look means is impossible.

Lisbet feels as though she is falling. She places both her hands firmly by her sides, tucks her head between her knees.

In the dark cave of her skirts, Lisbet sorts shadows, chasing them through fog. The token of hair, soft and blonde and secret. A sin so grave as to be banished. The glances, the strange energy between them, until that day Nethe accompanied Ida to the slums. Nethe’s night-time absences. Lisbet chews her tongue. There is the shock of the sin of course, black and swallowing, but also a great sort of sadness, that Ida never told her.

She looks up.

‘You are damned,’ says Lisbet softly, though she wants to scream. You lied. You lied. ‘The Devil can take you.’

The noise that comes from Ida’s throat is airless, strangled. A whimper.

‘Don’t,’ says Nethe.

‘This is why they kept you apart,’ says Lisbet, her hand on her belly. Let them think she is pious, that she is powerful. Not a scared woman, alone and abandoned in her confusion. ‘You are sinners of the worst kind. Unclean, foul, unnatural sodomites.’

Ida flinches, but Nethe returns her glare. ‘Those are Mutti’s words. Plater’s words.’

‘They are God’s,’ says Lisbet, bristling.