Edith spends the morning gathering kindling and bringing in the logs. She puts a battered pan on the stove, skins one of the rabbits and puts its long, pink body in the pan on the stove with the herbs and some barley. She smells it simmering, impatient for it to be cooked. Her stomach sings songs to the battered pan. To take her mind off food she goes out again to collect firewood and berries. She finds mushrooms, for if you dig under the snow the winter larder is still full and frozen.

When she’s collected a basketful she returns to the cabin. She takes the pan to the table and hungrily sucks the tender flesh from the carcass. Never has a dish tasted as sweet. Sated and tired, she climbs under the fur in all her many layers and sleeps. She dreams that Demetrius is with her, his fingers touching hers.

He says, ‘I knew you were a walker between two worlds.’

She thinks her voice might have returned. ‘Where is your violin?’ she asks. He points up and she sees it floating above his head.

Sunlight flickers across her eyelashes and throws soft shadows in the room. She props herself up. The wood-panelled walls are painted with a scene of mountains and forests and she can’t remember if they were painted when she first saw the room. There are bears and, if you look, wolves and eagles. It seems to her that the shepherd and his sheep are moving from field to field. She wonders if this is Demetrius’ doing, if it was he who left the rabbits. Had he watched over her while she was sleeping?

She wakes as it is getting dark, surprised she’s slept so long. What a strange moon it is that shines on her tonight. She lights a candle and takes the rabbit bones out of the stock and puts them by the stove to dry. She makes a soup from what remains. It tastes so good. Sweet rabbit, thank you for your life.

The snow badgers the windows, rattles the door. She looks up and half expects to hear the stamp of Demetrius’ feet, his voice saying, ‘My love.’ That night she stays close to the stove. When the bones are dry she lays them out on the table as if by reassembling the rabbit she might, as in one of her grandmother’s stories, bring it back to life. They don’t quite lie down, these bones that once hopped and jumped.