Bett keeps me busy with chopping, boiling, stirring, pouring, as well as my own tasks of milking, turning and wiping the cheese, collecting eggs. All the while she is full of instruction, giddy with anticipation. I’m grateful for the work, to fill my mind and steady my hands.

‘What happens at the festival?’ I ask, adding gooseberries to the pot where one of the mutton legs cooks. The scent of herbs and meat so rich that I want to take the spoon and have at it.

She turns from stirring the sops in wine. ‘It’ll be a rampage not a festival, if we don’t have this fare prepared in time.’

I can almost taste the food already. This mutton will be cooked until it falls from the bone. I lick my lips.

‘But midsummer’s the best night, with the fire and everyone comes, and all the feasting and dancing and wine.’ Bett looks over her shoulder, wipes her red face. ‘You will think you’ve been swept to heaven, and to have made the food and see the whole village enjoy it – worth every drop of sweat.’

She presses her hand to her back and groans. I glance around. We’re alone.

‘There’s nowt so healing as the midsummer sun,’ I say. ‘Away outside and close your eyes, turn until the sun falls upon the part that ails you. You’ll be cured while the sun sets.’

She scratches under her coif, frowning. ‘I’ve no time for healing now, too busy for midsummer sun. On with your tasks. Too much tattling.’

Then, with her back now turned and just as I’m raising the spoon to my lip, ‘And don’t eat it.’

We work all day and at last, as shadows lengthen and sunlight ripens, the food is ready. Bett and I begin to carry it to the fallow field where the men are laying out the fire, sleeves rolled up and hair damp with sweat.

Daniel winks at me and heat rises in my face. Even now, though I see him daily, though our plans of a life together are set. The days of standing in the sun washing and shearing sheep have browned him, blue eyes bright against burnished skin.

Bett clears her throat and looks away. ‘Enough time for that later – set to it, lass.’

I keep to the edge of the crowd as the magistrate holds the flame. He watches it intently, and I think he would not be inclined to notice me at this moment, but after his inspection I take extra care. I wear no coif but the white campion Bett twined in my hair and my new clothes still disguise me. But is it a mistake to put myself in the way of others? The cunning woman’s daughter has no place here.