There’s much I know already from watching Mam, and I could tell anyone which herbs will cure a bellyache or calm a rash. Many a time I’ve gathered plants for her. Now she goes about teaching me the skill of transforming them to salves or tinctures, of learning charms to find lost goods or release curses.

Today I mash the mallow leaves and stems we’ve gathered until they become a thick, sticky paste that fills the room with its fresh scent. Mam guides me as I add a little water and stir, making a tonic that, taken by the spoonful, will soothe a sickened stomach.

John sits, watching. There’s a hunger in his expression as he takes in Mam’s hand guiding mine, her soft laugh as I fail to mash the mixture smooth. He twitches his leg, taps the point of his knife against the table, waiting until she snaps at him to stop. She does not, and he scrapes his stool back, leaving without a word.

I remember John’s face when he heard Mam explain what my mark meant. He was but a lad of ten years, watching wide-eyed. The next morning he stripped and searched his own skin for a mark, running to Mam in excitement when he found a small dark stain on his chest.

She barely glanced his way. ‘That is not his mark, son,’ she said, bending to lift an infant Annie from her basket. ‘You are not chosen nor ever shall be, for yours is not the kind of soul he seeks.’ She jiggled Annie with one arm and placed the other hand on John’s bare shoulder. ‘You’re man of the house. Your job is to work. Provide.’

She turned from him. He pulled his tunic on and ran down the hill to the village. The first time he sought work and his first taste of the cruelty and skitting of the folk that refused him.

She does not comment now on his leaving, but watches me and pats my hand. ‘You’ve your great-grandmother’s blood,’ she says. ‘Now you shall come to the village and help me sell.’

I shake off the sadness I feel for John, swallow down the thrill of unease her words bring. I am cunning folk, and can be no other.

Mam and I wander from house to house, the shore at our backs and the breeze brackish with the scent of fish, coating our mouths and crusting our hair. This part of the beach is long, the sand smooth and, as the weather softens, the sea lilting gently. It’s busy with people: men in boats and hauling catches, women wading to find clams. This is not the part Annie and I come to, nor have I ever wished to.