I tighten my hold on Seth’s waist, though the heat of him is almost more than I can bear on such a day. A figure stands at the foot of the hill. A man. It appears he looks this way. He doesn’t move.

‘They shall make you welcome, to a one, to a one, and the Wilsons are the best of all. Such good souls and so beset with grief.’

I keep my eye on the man standing below. It is not Daniel. This man leans back, swinging a stick like a child.

‘Tomorrow nightfall, you come to me, and we shall have you wed and gone before sunrise.’

‘Thank you, Seth,’ I say, breathless from the heat and walk and heaviness of him. ‘We owe you everything.’

Seth stops, so abruptly that I almost trip. He holds his finger up as though considering the direction of the wind.

‘I fear I must puke,’ he says, and falls to his knees.

The figure walks towards us, and I towards him. It’s not long before I know him. Gabriel.

He whistles through his teeth, stands still. Regards me, and stabs the ground with the stick. He has sharpened the end.

I glance back at Seth, on hands and knees, retching. That Gabriel knows who I am matters not, for tomorrow I shall be gone.

I face him, silent. No point attempting to lay a curse, it will take more than a pointed finger and some words of magic to fright him.

‘So, Molly spoke right after all,’ he says. ‘You are none but that witch-whore, disguised as a sweet, comely lass.’

The story fits together in my mind like pieces of a broken branch, entwined to leave no space for doubt.

‘The brew didn’t work, did it?’ I ask.

‘What?’

‘She carries your babe.’

He moves closer, but a step away from me now, tall and wide as a wall. I stand my ground, staring up at him. Seth groans behind me.

‘You planted it in her belly with some witchery, for all I know.’

‘I’ll stake it was you did that, Gabriel.’

‘Dare you speak my name?’

His hand flies out, dropping the stick at his feet, and I flinch, despite determination to stand firm. He grabs my coif and throws it to the ground, rips the pins from my hair so it falls down my neck and over my shoulder. Slowly, he wraps it round his hand, brings it up and caresses his cheek, dips his nose and breathes in, eyes closed. I am brought closer to him as he winds my hair around his fist.

‘Leave me be,’ I say.

‘Long, I have dreamed of this,’ he says, voice softer than I’ve ever heard. ‘To know the look of it about your shoulder, to know the feel and scent.’