The white bird, thought Edith as Flora hung the dress on the bedroom door. Edith had never seen such a lovely garment, elegant yet simple in its design. The feel of the fabric spoke of another life. She smiled. This is the dress I’m going to wear, she thought, the one the butcher promised me, a dress to fly away in. She pointed to the dress and then to herself.

Flora said, ‘But what will the elders say?’ and laughed when she saw Edith’s face. ‘Then, my lady, I shall dress you. And stuff and nonsense to the rest. Perhaps,’ she added, ‘a little plum wine for us wouldn’t go amiss.’

By the time the church bells rang out over the village, a few of the older women had gathered at the cabinet maker’s house to light the fire, lay out the food and shoo the hens into the yard.

Flora had just finished dressing Edith’s white hair with handmade white flowers when Georgeta called in on her way to the church. ‘Edith,’ she said, kissing her cheek, ‘if your grandmother was here she would say you are the Snow Queen from one of her tales.’

Edith slipped her feet into a pair of delicate satin shoes and Flora turned round the mirror so that she could see herself. Edith didn’t recognise the woman she was looking at, a woman with wisdom in her eyes and an hypnotic gaze. Was this her? She had wondered if the loss of her voice had made her invisible, but now she saw there was nothing weak in her. Yes, she said to herself, I have strength enough to do this.

Flora said, ‘You are the most beautiful woman I have ever dressed.’

Edith picked up the violin and the bow and held them as if they were a bouquet.

‘Good luck,’ said Georgeta as she set off to the church.

The old women stared open-mouthed when Edith walked into the kitchen.

‘Are we ready?’ said her father, swaying somewhat. There were two Ediths and neither of them – or perhaps one of them – was dressed in traditional costume. He looked again. ‘But… you’re not… that’s the white wedding dress. You’re not…’

Edith stared at him, her eyes blazing with determination. She could see that her father was weighing up the arguments.

‘Change,’ he commanded. ‘Go and change. And give me that violin.’ Edith shook her head, and her father, defeated by alcohol and a daughter he didn’t know, said, ‘All right. It doesn’t matter a bear’s shirt as long as you’re married. Let the butcher – let your husband – punish you. Not me. We should be going… yes, we should be going. I’ve forgotten something… what is it?’