‘Frau Wiler,’ says Ida, jumping to her feet. ‘How are—’

‘Busy,’ says Sophey. ‘What are you doing here so early?’

‘She brought me a gift,’ says Lisbet, unable to rise from the low log pile. Too late she remembers Ida’s instruction not to share the fine flour, but already Sophey is holding a knotted hand out for the basket. Ida meekly hands it over, and Sophey sniffs at the contents.

‘Won’t your children be missing their mother?’

‘I was just taking my leave,’ says Ida. She is as cowed by Sophey as anyone – no one is immune to her force. Sophey turns without another word, and strides to the kitchen.

‘She is always so rude to you,’ says Lisbet.

‘She is rude to everyone,’ shrugs Ida. ‘And today is an anxious day. Even Sophey Wiler must be nervous to receive her returned daughter.’

‘I suppose.’

She pulls Lisbet gently to her feet, kisses her once more on her cheek, and pats her belly gently. ‘Grow well.’

‘Go well,’ says Lisbet in return, and watches her slight-shouldered friend hurry from the yard. Beyond her, she can see Henne among the skeps, moving from hive to hive, a smoking tray in his hand like a priest’s censer. He is too far for her to smell the rosemary, but she carries it anyway, on her own clothes and hair. The tug in her chest is physical, as though her longing is a thread pulled between her and the hives. Her affinity for the bees is preternatural, and when she is at her duties she feels a rearrangement of herself, like stars fallen into constellations of good fortune. Even Sophey sees it, though she would never say so.

The first time she saw the farm she thought it quaint, with its three solid structures forming an open-faced square aimed at the skeps and the forest beyond. She imagined children tumbling into the dust of the well-kept yard, hanging from her skirts. Noise all about her, tears and laughter: the delicious sounds of life and need.

Since visiting the almshouses she knows they live in what passes for great comfort for these parts. Bees, a kitchen, and three rooms besides. But their farm feels both empty and cramped and even in the full glare of the sun, dim somehow. Hemmed in. Only the bees and her tree offer joy: one given her by Henne, the other a gift to herself.

‘Lisbet!’ Sophey’s voice is a summons and a command. Lisbet sighs and turns her back on the bees, the deserted yard, and goes inside.

Two

Sophey stands like a prophet with a staff, bristle broom in hand. She holds it out to Lisbet.

‘The room needs sweeping.’

There is no need to ask which she means. There is Henne’s room, Sophey’s room, the kitchen, and the room. Agnethe’s room. It has been kept closed, like a tomb, and Lisbet has seen the door rolled back only a couple of times in her half-decade in the house. Once, to free a blackbird that flew through the shutters and seemed intent on breaking its neck, and another when Plater came to levy tax on their doors and windows, counting them so ponderously she wondered if he was paid by the minute. They can hardly spare the space, but there is an unspoken agreement that Agnethe’s room is to be ignored, as though the door were a wall, wiped smooth until its resident returned from the mountains.