Mam hangs her head. Nods. My heart quickens and I will it to quiet for fear he will hear.

‘These cunning practices, there can be – evil in them. Can there not?’

His gaze lands sharp on Mam. ‘’Tis just the use of plants, knowing which ones heal,’ she says. ‘Nowt more.’

‘I have heard otherwise. There is a bleeding through, from cunning folk to witch folk. From plants to potions, from cures to curses. A calling on the evil spirits that lurk, and using them for your own devices.’

‘Oh nay, sir,’ Mam says. Her voice earnest and soft. ‘I’d never use such – practices, as you say. I know only of herbs and healing.’

His arm remains outstretched, holding the door ajar. He makes no move to leave. ‘A godless knowledge, nevertheless. I am sure even so simple parts as these have heard tell of the King’s concerns over such things? What happens to those that are found practising?’

There is silence as his words fall. We know of what he speaks.

‘There’s no such thing here,’ Mam says. I hear her voice strain. ‘You’ve nowt to fear.’

‘Indeed, no,’ he says. ‘For my conscience is clear.’ He touches his hat again. ‘Wright is the name. I shall return.’

At last he steps through and the door closes with a dull thud. Mam sinks on to a stool. Annie throws the covers back, leaps from the mat and runs to her. Mam holds her tight, raising a finger to her lips to warn us to keep quiet. We wait, silent, until we are sure he’s gone.

‘He could have taken his hat off,’ she says.

‘Hardly the worst of his behaviour,’ I say.

‘But still.’ She strokes Annie’s hair, staring at the floor. ‘Ah, Dew-Springer. This is more than even you can protect us from.’

I remain in the doorway, throat so full of questions they cannot fight their way out. Still hiding the poppet in my petticoat and thankful that I had the foresight to take it. It would have been all the evidence he needed to have us sent to the assizes.

John’s singing alerts us to his return, a lilting tale of a witch turned hare that should, were it sung with any skill, melt the heart and strike the soul. A poor choice. Mangled by John’s caterwauling, his once-sweet voice now cracking and lurching from a deep rumble to a sudden screech.

He bursts through the door, banging into the table and laughing, hiccupping. Hair falling over his face and carrying a stench of ale I’ve never smelled on him before. Clutched in his arms a pile of clothes that he waves at us as he did the lamb.