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There was something in the comfortable way she said it that made me feel easier. I split the log in only two strokes. I managed to hit one of the cracks in the next piece, and it divided with a single blow.

Margret clapped. “Well done!” Lilja exclaimed, beaming as if I’d completed a marathon. In truth, I did feel rather proud of myself. It’s funny how the practice of such simple, ancient skills can put one at ease.

My progress, though, was rather uneven. My aim began to improve under Lilja’s instruction, but I did not have her strength, and I could not be comfortable swinging something so deadly about, particularly after the fiasco with Wendell. After we’d accumulated a little pile between us, she and Margret helped me cart it inside, and I found myself inviting them to stay for tea, though my notes scowled accusingly at me from the table.

“How cosy!” Margret said, and they both looked around the cottage admiringly. For some reason, I did not inform them that the cosiness was all Wendell’s making. Not once have I been complimented on my apartments at Cambridge. Well, I spend most of my time in the library or my office, so what does it matter?

Lilja asked if Wendell was in, and both looked relieved when I shook my head.

“Surely you aren’t frightened of him?” I enquired.

“Oh, no!” Margret said a little too quickly. “We’re very grateful to him for helping us.”

“Yes,” Lilja said, and I understood then that they were afraid of Wendell, very much so, and eager to avoid offending him.

I sensed Margret wanted to pursue the subject of Wendell somehow, but she said nothing more as I made tea. I was relieved they hadn’t mentioned the tavern again—I doubt I will ever be easy in such places, particularly when all in attendance insist on approaching you for a warm-hearted sort of chat, full of praise and gratitude that I have no more idea what to do with than one of Thora’s skeins of yarn and some knitting needles.

We chatted about my research and my forthcoming ICODEF presentation with Bambleby, and then as I poured the tea, Margret said in a bit of a rush, “Then you and Wendell are not—an item?”

I blinked at her. “I—no. Of course not. We are colleagues. And friends, I suppose,” I added grudgingly.

“I didn’t think so,” Lilja said, giving Margret a just as I said sort of look. “What with how he carries on with the village girls.”

But Margret’s brow was furrowed. “I only thought— The way he looks at you—”

The way he looks at me? I thought about the way Wendell looked at me sometimes, particularly when he thought I wasn’t aware of it, and then I felt hot, then cold, then hot again. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said, turning away to conceal my blush. Good grief, you’d think I was a girl of sixteen.

Lilja kicked Margret. “She probably has someone back home, you goose.”

“Do you?” Margret said.

“Oh, no.” I busied myself with the toast—one of Poe’s palest, softest breads. “I’m always much too busy for that sort of thing.”

Margret blinked. “Then—then there’s never been anyone you fancied?”

“Oh, of course,” I said, much relieved that the subject had shifted from Wendell. “There was Leopold—he and I were together a year. We were studying for our doctorates at Cambridge at the same time. He went away to Tübingen afterwards on a fellowship. He asked me to come along, but obviously it was out of the question.”

Lilja waited, as if expecting me to go on. “And—that’s it?” When I looked at her blankly, she seemed embarrassed and said, “That’s it. I see.”

Margret was not so tactful. “One? That’s it? I’ve been with more men than that, and I don’t even like them. And you’re—” She squinted, clearly attempting to assess my age—the furrow in her brow boded an unfavourable conclusion. Lilja elbowed her.

“I suppose I’m just—” I thought it over. “Choosy.”

Lilja smiled. “Choosy. I like that.”

Margret leaned back with a snort of laughter. “I wish this one had been a little more choosy before I came along.”

Lilja kicked her. “Rude.”

“You know what else is rude?” Margret leaned towards me. “Burning down a stranger’s barn on account of a broken heart.”

“Erika didn’t burn down your barn!” Lilja said. “It’s still standing.”

“Thanks to the rainstorm, not her.” To me, Margret added, “Lilja has a habit of romancing madwomen.”

“I do not!”

“Either that or you turn them mad, then. I suppose I’ll be locked up in due course. Perhaps after I set the village alight.”