I turn and head towards home, not daring to call to him, though I wish to. Whatever John is about cannot be good, and can only invite danger after last night’s meeting. I’ll have it out with Mam as soon as I see her. Hurrying up the hill, caring not to protect my white stockings from the dust as I lift my petticoat and march on. Mouth dry and brow damp with exertion but I do not stop. I pray they are there, that Seth had the goodwill to rouse them from their beds last night with warnings of the bitter words flying about the village.

Outside the door I pause, even now, to twist the ring on my finger. As though I carry Daniel with me this way, though I only dare wear it on visits home lest his father see and discover us. Watch my own hand reach out, metal glinting in sunlight, push the door open. The moment, the last unknowing one before I find which of them awaits inside and if all is well, stretches out unbearably.

‘Mam,’ I call before my feet are even in, before I can see anything of the dimness inside. ‘Mam, tell me you’re all safe there’s talk in the village, and I’ve just seen John—’

She appears in front of me, says softly, ‘I did not expect you now.’

I throw my arms around her, chin on her shoulder as I stare into the shadows for Annie and John, for perhaps he’s reached home before me.

A woman sits at our table.

I am fixed, holding on to Mam. I know who this is that watches me as I, Sarah the farm dairymaid, embrace my mother, the cunning woman from the cursed hill, but am unable to understand her presence here.

Her soft-edged beauty is out of place against the battered furniture, grimy walls and cobweb-strewn corners. Her skin too bright, her round eyes too light. Though I note, as I grow used to the gloom, she carries a haunted look I’ve not seen on her before. Of course. Only the troubled call upon this dwelling.

She looks from the ring I wear to my face under the coif that is my disguise, and I see she understands all.

‘You,’ she says, the word floating from her cracked lips like a feather.

Mam eases out of my clasp and steps to the table. ‘Drink up,’ she says.

The girl lifts the cup and swallows down the brew. I cannot see from here, but I know well enough the scent.

She meets my eye again as she finishes.

‘Parsley and tearthumb,’ I say.

There is nothing more to be spoken. Each looking at the other, knowing the one thing we would strive to keep hidden is revealed.

Mam takes the cup from her, holds out her hand for the coin in return.