Lisbet nods. ‘The planks and rope and all came from one of the houses deeper in.’ Eren is frowning, and Lisbet elaborates. ‘There are abandoned places, houses from the pagans and rebels and others besides.’

‘These woods have a history of secrets,’ says Nethe, now placing the candles about the platform.

He shakes his head. ‘I can hardly believe you built it.’

‘Repaired it only,’ Lisbet says, and accepts the beer because there is nothing else to do with her hands. ‘Dance trees were common even when my parents were children. This was disarranged but the supports were firm. It was simple, only five planks rested across the boughs, some nails.’ She laughs at the unflattering astonishment on his face. ‘I was young once, and smooth-bellied, and strong.’

‘She was ever strong,’ says Ida, reaching for the flask again. Lisbet passes it on without drinking. ‘When Henne brought her I thought her a slip, a sheaf of barley easily shaken, easily snapped. But she has not so much as bent, even after all that has come her way.’

To her dismay, Lisbet feels something swell in her throat. Ida is wrong, though. She has bent, she has broken, many times over. She looks away, at the ribbons hanging limp in the trees.

Ida slides her slim hand into hers. ‘You are a marvel, Bet. Agnethe told me how you managed the bees.’

‘And about the thief?’

‘Of course,’ says Ida, her forehead crumpling. ‘It is sad there are many so in need, so wretched.’

Lisbet takes a breath. She wants to tell Ida of her suspicions, her fear that it was Daniel, that even now he’ll be taking his message to Plater, bringing ruin down on them all. But then Ida turns away, reaching for the beer again.

‘I am surprised you came,’ says Nethe, eyeing Eren. ‘Is it usual for a Turk to keep the company of sodomites?’

‘Nethe,’ says Lisbet warningly.

‘Perhaps not,’ says Eren lightly. ‘But it is somewhat common for a musician.’

Lisbet smiles despite herself. She has never known a man with such good humour. Henne finds nothing funny, has inherited his mother’s disposition for forbidding looks over mirth. And his cruelty, to betray Nethe – where did that come from?

‘I knew it,’ says Nethe. ‘The drummer?’

Eren ducks his head, smoothing the strings of the lute. Lisbet feels her belly flip.

‘Frederich? He is . . .’ She feels naive as a newborn. All around her, lives unlike anything she knew existed, a secret language.

‘He loves a guard,’ says Eren. ‘At the gaol.’

Lisbet’s cheeks flush, and she hates it, hates her naivety.

‘Ha!’ says Nethe. ‘See, we are all about if only you know where to look. In the Twenty-One’s employ, no less. Even at the abbey, I wondered about some of the sisters. But of course,’ she says, reaching out as if to soothe Ida, ‘I had no interest.’

‘Nethe,’ says Ida quietly. ‘Please.’

‘So proper, our Ida. I think we are ready for a dance,’ says Nethe, clapping her hands. ‘Play us a tune.’