‘Even you are scared of me,’ said the butcher. ‘Look at you. A frightened mouse. Edith isn’t scared. She’s the only one who’s ever stood up to me.’ He got up and moved close to the priest. ‘That soft neck – I dreamed of strangling her – she was mine by rights. I’ve never had a beautiful woman. They’ve all been pig ugly – even Sorina looks ugly when she weeps. She always weeps. Go, Priest. Get out of here before I cut off your tail.’

Night, and all was dark apart from an occasional light in a window; the closing of shutters the only sound as the silence of the mountain settled over the village.

Misha helped Edith cook supper. The minute the meal was over the cabinet maker put on his hat and asked if he could go to the inn.

‘No,’ said Edith, bringing a near-empty bottle of plum brandy for him.

The cabinet maker sighed and took the bottle to his room, barricading the door as he did every night. Neither Misha nor Edith heard him put a chair under his window and climb out.

Misha had brought a bottle of schnapps. Edith poured them both a glass and said, ‘My grandmother would gather all the gossip, all the fears of the village, add her own ingredients and make a soup of words. She would tell a tale that felt as if it was yours alone. The room would go dark and it seemed to me that the story became a ball of light for you to catch.’

‘They’re powerful when you tell them aloud,’ Misha said. ‘Would they be as strong if they were written?’

‘That’s a good question.’

She took out the violin and put it under her chin. In the flicker of the candle flame Misha could see an audience would be enthralled by her music, by her beauty, just as they would be by her grandmother’s stories.

Edith put the bow to the strings and played a melody that floated out of the window and was heard in the stillness of the night by many villagers on the edge of sleep.