‘Do you have no feelings for me?’ he roared in her face. ‘I built this house – with a staircase – for you and your grandmother.’ At the word ‘grandmother’ he paused. ‘It wasn’t my fault what happened to her. I know you blame me. I did nothing. Do you believe me? Speak!’ he yelled, his hand held high. ‘How dare you not answer me. I am the head of this household.’

A king of small things, thought Edith as she backed away, knowing well the weight of her father’s hand.

It was then that the door opened, letting in a sudden draught. The cabinet maker, fearing the butcher had returned, moved away from Edith.

‘I didn’t touch her,’ he shouted at the unseen visitor.

Misha stood in the doorway. Edith took his hand and brought him into the kitchen. There was no doubting whose grandson he was. He looked like the butcher, but a kinder version of him.

‘What do you want?’ said the cabinet maker. ‘Did your grandfather send you?’

‘I’ll come with you tomorrow and help you bring back the fish from the market. That’s all.’ He turned and left.

The cabinet maker followed him out into the yard. ‘What time?’ he called after the lad.

The following morning the air was freezing and the day had yet to find light. Edith was up. She had her father’s snow boots waiting for him, fresh bread and cheese wrapped in a cloth. Yet she could not rouse him from his bed. Misha was already there with his grandfather’s sleigh, waiting to begin the journey.

‘Where’s your father?’ he said. ‘We must start.’

Edith led him into her father’s bedroom.

‘Go away,’ shouted the cabinet maker. ‘Away. I’m not going to get out of my bed for a fish. I need my sleep. I’m not a well man.’

Misha shrugged. ‘Leave him. It’ll be faster if I go alone.’

Edith shook her head.

‘It’s all right,’ Misha said and Edith handed him the food wrapped in the cloth, and one of her father’s small bottles of plum brandy. ‘Flora has asked me to collect a parcel from the draper’s, he added.

Edith wished she could say this betrothal is not worth the fish, not worth the fabric. Please don’t go. But no sound came from her. After he had left, the house settled back into its silence.

I can’t marry the butcher, she thought to herself. The inevitability of her fate sent a shiver through her. She would escape even if it was into the arms of death. She’d rather death danced her into the grave than let the butcher steal her youth, her life from her. She wondered if the walls of houses remembered conversations. If walls could speak they would tell the truth of what they recalled of the day she found her grandmother lying at the foot of the stairs.