Mam breaks off from us towards the fishermen’s cottages that line the harbour, for John has brought tell of a woman there whose hen broods and will not lay. It is likely cursed and she’ll ask Mam to divine who this enemy is and punish them, as well as rid it of the enchantment. Mam carries the lamb’s eyes and what remains of the blood, for both might have a use here. We skirt the village and pass to the other side, and I am glad that she yet expects no more of me than begging and gathering herbs. The time comes, I know, when she will insist I learn the cunning ways, and all that means: herbs and healing but also curses and retributions. Sometimes she asks me, but always I resist, feared of the stirring within myself: the call to anger, the lust to harm. The will of he that claimed me.

It is Sunday, and the good people are on their way to church. A day with almost as much meaning for us as it has for them, for we must live by the pattern of their days if we’re to know when to catch them to our advantage. The villagers are dressed in their best to meet God, though I’ve never understood why. Surely He sees straight through the clothes to their blackened souls beneath. No pretty flower will hide the look that’s an invitation to another’s husband, no scrubbing of a hand will remove the bruise it left on a wife’s face the night before.

Annie and I are used to keeping unseen, skulking round corners and lurking in shadows. We have learned to step silently. Over the hedge we see hats and caps bob along the path. When we step on to the road they scatter as though a stone has been thrown among them. The ladies drop their eyes and move aside, the men raise their chins and glare. Mam has taught us which villagers will never show kindness and which are happy to buy from her, though none are inclined to give and get nowt in return, as we well know.

The first stone hits Annie on the back, and she cries out, a combination of pain and bewilderment. I know from the sound that she’s not badly hurt, but clutch her to me and spin around to see a lad and lass, not much older than she, laughing as they let fly some more. I’m caught on the shoulder and arm that protects Annie, a sting and spread of heat that is not strong but angers me.

‘Plague-sore,’ they call. ‘Basket-scrambler.’

I almost throw Annie to the ground. ‘Wait there,’ I say, marching towards the children.