It is Mam I’m most feared to pass my gift to, knowing her demand that all coming through the door must have a use. Here am I presenting a trinket.

She swallows as she takes the necklace, peering down at it in her rough palm. ‘Oh, lass,’ she says at last. ‘You should not have wasted your earnings on an old crone like me.’

‘No crone. Just my mam.’

She pats my cheek and I long to take her hand and keep it there always. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says, putting the necklace on. ‘I shall wear it day and night and it will be like carrying you with me.’

I nod, embrace her. ‘Has he been back?’ I whisper. ‘Wright?’

She shakes her head. ‘Nay but – the stories I hear. The things they’re saying he …’ She catches sight of Annie watching and swallows her words.

‘All will be well,’ I say, though fear sickens me so, I can barely speak.

Mam smooths her hair. ‘Aye. Now. Tell all of your new life.’

Gifts given and tales of the luxuries of life on the farm shared, I help Mam with her work. We crush dried camomile leaves and prepare a brew, for though Alice Turner has been released by the sprite that tormented her, she still suffers with wild thoughts and frequent fears, Mam says. As we stand together stirring leaves and water in the pot over the fire, I can let myself imagine for a moment that I did not leave, that tonight I’ll lie with Annie curled at my side again.

But the light fades, and I know I must go. Annie and I take ash from the fire, sprinkle a ring around her mat, then I stand her by the open door to search her skin. Mam assures me she’s done it, but I must see for myself.

She hops from foot to foot, hugging her skinny body. ‘Too cold,’ she says. ‘Tarry till morning, look then.’

‘I can’t, Annie,’ I say, prising her arms from her chest so I can turn them and search the underside.

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve to live at the farm now, remember?’

She is still, wet brown eyes turned to me so that I can barely look at her. ‘But, why?’

‘So that I can work, and bring you food. So that we may all have a better life.’

She crosses her arms, stamps a filthy foot. ‘How is it better if you’re not here?’

I pull her to me but she resists. ‘Who will keep me safe?’ she asks.

I swallow back tears, force my voice to come calm and steady. ‘Mam will search for marks, John will ring the bell. You’ll be safe.’