Rowan leans forward until her cheeks rest against the cold plastic tray. Soothing. Calming. Damping down the fire in her head.

Everything will be OK.

The fifth tenet: ‘Do not fear the darkness, make it fear you.’

She closes the freezer lid and the room goes black, just the gurgle and buzz as the compressor kicks in, taking it back down below zero again.

Shapes fade out of the gloom: the boxy outline of the big chest freezer, the scythe leaning against the wall, the lonely pegboard stained by the ghosts of implements past. The old wooden table. The sickly sweet stench of death.

‘Light a fire in God’s name. . .’

She takes a deep breath and straightens her back. It’s time.

The door opens with a creak onto the next room. A barn, with dusty bales of hay stacked in the corner, heady with the smell of mildew. Mouse droppings make Morse code patterns on the dirt floor.

That won’t do.

She picks up the broom and clears a patch in the middle, eight foot by eight foot. Then stands and stares down at the uneven grey surface, lights the black candle and traces the circles out across it. Septen, merid, orien, occid – north, south, east, and west. Then the names of God, the symbols, and finally the pentagram.

Rowan smiles. No gaps, no mistakes, a perfect Ring Knot.

The hammer is heavy in her black-gloved hand, and so is the metal stake. It rings like a bell as she batters it into the hard-packed dirt at the head of the pentagram, each blow jarring up her arm into her shoulder, sending up a little puff of dust.

Four more stakes go in and finally it’s done.

The man in the corner says something behind his gag, eyes wide and trembling. He’s lying on his side, both hands tied behind his back. His wrists are red and chafed around the rope where he’s been struggling, the ankles are the same – bare feet filthy and scratched. Tendrils of orange and red crackle around him, thorns of light scratching at the granite walls. Looking for weapons. Looking for a way out.

When what he should be looking for is redemption.

He’s lucky, he gets to be inside the knot, protected from the darkness of witchcraft and unclean souls. From people like her. . .

She lays out the tools of her trade – the blade, the pin, the bottle of lemon juice, the can of shaving cream and the razor.

His soul might be protected, but his body is another matter.

Rowan stands, brushes the dust off her gloves. Faces her enemy. Keeps her voice level. ‘The Kirk is my mother and father. It is my rod and my staff. My shield and my sword. What I do in its service lights a fire in God’s name.’

Tears roll down his pale face.

Make the darkness fear you.