‘The dead are meant to be silent, not the living, not you, my love.’

Edith spoke to him in the same way.

‘Why can’t I see you? Why in dreams do you have a shape and no voice? I hardly knew you and you’re gone.’

‘I’m here.’

She watched the sunlight flickering on the surface of the blue jug.

‘How do I live knowing I’ve lost you, and years, meaningless years, spread out before me? I’m to be buried alive, a house my coffin, a wedding ring my chain, a white dress my shroud.’

The sound of the gate made her jump. The seamstress was brushing her boots and the hem of her dress free of the snow. She came into the kitchen, put down her basket and gathered Edith to her.

‘What has happened?’ Flora asked. ‘You look so pale – and your hair…’

There was only silence.

Edith was pleased to see Flora and at the same time dreaded the questions she would ask.

‘Speak to me, Edith. I don’t believe you can’t talk. Has a doctor seen you?’ Edith shook her head. ‘You’d think we were living in the Middle Ages. Next year a train will run from the capital to the town and then this village will not be so isolated.’

Edith put the kettle on the stove and thought she should have left in the summer, gone up the mountain, found Demetrius and not cared what anyone thought. Now it was too late. Regret rubbed her raw. She took the bread from the oven. Better to be doing something, anything, rather than sit across from Flora. She patted the loaf out of the tin and sat it on the rack. The smell of the warm bread filled the kitchen.

‘Please speak, Edith,’ said Flora. ‘I won’t tell a soul if you do, I promise. I’m older than you by seven years and wise enough to see that your silence has a power of its own.’

Edith wished Flora would leave.

‘The butcher came this morning talking nonsense about a wedding gown.’

Why do people speak so much, thought Edith, watching Flora busy herself with her basket.

‘Perhaps because the dead can’t speak.’

‘I think you might be right.’

‘Edith – are you listening?’ said Flora. ‘You should see a doctor in town. I know a good one.’

The idea that there was money to see the village doctor, let alone a doctor in town, nearly made Edith laugh. She put butter and jam on the table and gestured to Flora to help herself. She poured the tea, not listening. So many women live lives crushed by words.

‘Edith?’

She looked up at Flora.

‘Do you hear what I’m saying?’