The women of the village began to arrive at the bride’s house, as was the tradition. The men went to the butcher’s house to drink the health of the bridegroom. There would have been more joy at a funeral than there was at these two gatherings. None of the talk was of the wedding, all was of the murder. Every man thought he knew who the killer was but daren’t say his name; every woman said quietly, ‘The butcher.’

Edith sat where she had when the day began, before she knew what the hours held. The glow of the candle reflected in the window behind her gave her a golden halo of light. Georgeta thought she had an unearthly quality, that her spirit was on the edge of a journey.

Edith watched the women come in, take wine and cakes and try not to stare at her. They whispered, their low voices a swarm of sleepy bees. Una came with Lena’s mother and was careful to avoid her sister.

What can I do, thought Edith, closing her eyes. What would I say if I had a voice? I would tell the butcher, ‘No,’ and still he wouldn’t hear. How many women in this room had ever been heard, for all their talking?

Una, with determined cheerfulness, lifted her glass to drink a toast to the bride.

‘Come, Vanda,’ she said. ‘It’s the tradition. Here’s to happiness and a long life.’

Vanda put down her glass and she shook her head. ‘No, this is not a celebration where we all come together, remember our weddings and make the bride blush about the loss of her innocence. This is a wake. A young man who Edith willingly gave her gold coin – her heart – to has been murdered.’

‘Sister,’ hissed Una. ‘It was a hunting accident.’

Silence fell over the gathering and Vanda was about to say more when there was a knock on the door. Lena opened it and found Misha, washed and shaved. She slipped out for a moment to speak to him and came back a little flushed.

‘Tell him to go away,’ called Una. ‘It’s unlucky for a man to be here.’

‘He wants a word with his mother,’ said Lena.

Vanda wrapped her shawl round her and went onto the verandah. ‘Are you going to your grandfather’s house?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Misha. ‘Neither is Father. I’m going to spend the evening with him. I wanted Edith to have this.’ He held up the violin and bow. ‘I’ve polished it but I don’t know how to tune it.’ He gave it to his mother and turned to go.

Vanda reached out and caught her son’s hand. The look of surprise on his face shocked her.

‘Wait,’ she said. ‘I just…’

‘What is it, Mother?’ Misha asked.