The second her father had let go of her arm, Edith had picked up her skirt and ran. She ran as fast as she could, slip-sliding but never entirely falling. Behind her she could hear her father shouting, his voice trailing away on the icy breeze. On she ran towards the forest and she dared not look back.

Edith felt the mountain and its whalebone curve as she began to climb. It took all her energy to make progress. If she could reach the edge of the forest she stood a chance of staying hidden. Her dress white, the sky white, the snow white, all without shape, only the forest was a faint etching of dark grey lines on white paper. Still the snow fell.

All the breath in her was gone when she reached the forest. She rested her head on the trunk of a beech tree and listened to the wind. The snow was not so deep under the branches of the trees but she strayed off the path, tripped and found herself slipping down a bank, her foot going through ice into a stream, filling her boot with freezing water. Taking care not to damage the violin, she scrambled out and up the bank. The trees were close together and they caught her dress, and the thorny undergrowth, remembering its sharp claws, tore at her flesh. She was now buried in the forest, where day became night and only the snow, glinting with diamonds, lit the way. Where was she going, where could she hide, said a small voice in her. She turned at the sound of a hunting horn to see if she was being followed. There was no one. She went on, hoping her footprints would disappear under fresh snow before anyone came after her.

Finally, she reached the necklace of white-coated fir trees that guarded the mountain itself and here the snow became deeper again, harder to walk in. Edith was weary and had lost track of time. She thought she heard dogs barking.

The light was beginning to disappear. There was little chance of her surviving, she’d known that when she started to run. She was ill-dressed for such a place and such weather and already she was so cold she could hardly feel her feet or fingers and it hurt to walk. It doesn’t matter, she told herself, I’m the white bird flying free.

Now she heard the unmistakable voice of the butcher shouting her name.

‘Edith!’ Her name ricocheted from tree to tree.

She could see the lights of distant lanterns through the branches and knew there were more men with him. Holding tight to the violin and the bow she started to run as the sound of the dogs came ever nearer.

‘Over there,’ shouted the butcher.