Fen could hear ice shifting. Close by, a wooden bridge creaked under the weight of snow. Beneath it, the lake moved its jagged pieces into a beautiful, haphazard jig saw pattern. From a cedar box, she took out a red velvet cloth and laid it down upon the snow. Beside her a wood fire crackled. Upon the fire a blackened kettle melted handfuls of snow.

On a red velvet cloth, she placed a silver trivet, its short stout legs dimpling the smoothness of the cloth’s surface. Upright, pushed into the snow, stood a cross she’d made from twigs that were bound together with long strands of her dark hair. Behind her, a blue tent flapped in the icy wind like a trapped bird trying to escape. Inside the tent, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, a baby lay cocooned in a Moses basket that had been first used two days ago.

Placing a pewter mug on the trivet, she lifted the kettle from the fire and poured hot water into the mug that warmed her hands. Some water slopped out and trickled onto the cloth. Staring down at those dark spots, Fen heard the sound of barking dogs. Then in ebbs and flows, men’s voices drifted to her. Urgent calls were muffled by another fall of heavy snow. For an instant, she thought she recognised her husband’s voice amongst the searchers and her resolve, for a moment, wavered.

Fen got up from her knees, holding the mug in one steady hand. Crawling inside the tent where her baby lay, she dipped a finger into the mug and drew a sign of the cross upon the infant’s forehead. Gazing down at alabaster cheeks, she smoothed away wispy, soft hair from her child’s brow, and prayers tumbled from her cracked lips in wracked sobs of torment and grief.

At the sounds of men and dogs drawing closer, their heavy footsteps audible upon scrunching snow, she lay beside the Moses basket, and whispered the name, Olivia. Then, with a cry, plunged a hunting knife deep into her breast; a breast that leaked unsuckled milk.