From outside, I can hear the sound of sharp blows. The Farmhand is chopping wood. His axe strikes rhythmically; he has an internal clock, its tempo beats in his arms.

I have an internal clock, too. It has stopped at the early hours of the morning.

A shadow flits across the window. I go to see: Henrik is moving slowly towards the woodshed. He is as broad-shouldered as ever, but is he still the same? Immediately, my back tenses like a spring. I am all fluttery as I hurry into the hall and push my feet into shoes. I slip out on to the steps. I am so light that the snow, trampled hard, does not betray my movements. I turn off the pathway and reach a place behind the cowshed where I can listen. I hold my breath, to hear without being heard.

‘At least the place hasn’t been left to rot,’ says Henrik. ‘I could see that when I arrived last night. The moon’s as bright as the sun sometimes.’

It takes a while for the Farmhand to answer. ‘Bright enough to do battle by?’

‘We didn’t do much battle at night. Only a couple of times. We were near here one night, over by the village.’

The Farmhand’s axe is still. ‘I heard. You burnt down the houses.’

‘What does it matter who did the burning? I saw to it this house wasn’t burnt. Though the enemy had a friend here, so they said.’

The Farmhand spits. He barely makes a noise. ‘Depends how you see it. Some had a different enemy – that goes for many men we know.’

‘Well, now we have an emperor. New regime. It’s time to put away the weapons and start thinking about the future.’ I can picture Henrik’s face, set, like a pale piece of wood resting between his shoulders. ‘Things will get better, believe me.’