He had never been master of his own destiny. What difference did it make to hand himself over to her? At least he was choosing who wielded power over him. There was a wildness to the thought, a freedom, that set him alight as much as it chilled him to the core.

Teeth

John crouches in the shadows at the corner of the room next to his mat, a plank of wood in his hand, the bones of his shoulders pressing through the worn cloth of his tunic. He waits to catch the mice that make their beds in ours. This is his habit only when in the vilest of moods.

‘Thought you were looking for work,’ I say, heaving the bucket to the wall, stained with soot and turning to mould at the top where the roof leaks. Bending over, I press my hand to my side, catch my breath. I might as well throw mutton fat on to smouldering embers. I see well enough in the dim light to notice Mam falter as she sits at the table, mashing worms and purple flowers for her May Day love potions.

‘I looked, I asked, I begged as no man should be made to. Not one’ll have me. All I got was a split lip.’

‘Brawling?’

He remains hunched over, eyes focused on the mat and voice low so as not to scare away the mice, but there is venom in each word. ‘I knocked on every door and asked to fix the roof or chop wood or even fetch water, though it’s a job for a woman. And after I’d borne every insult from rogue to loiter, that dolt-headed netter said he’d not stink his dwelling by letting me through the door if I was to pay him and threw a pot of water over me. So yes I took my fee in blood and teeth. Beat him until he sniffled worse than Annie. His sneer’ll not look so pretty now.’

‘He’s dead?’ I ask, words sticking in my throat, mind tumbling with what will happen to us if this is true.

John snorts. ‘Would he was, but nay. He’ll live to skit me another day.’

I think of John’s humiliation, knowing how every insult cuts him. How he feels his duty to replace Father, and his failure to do so keenly. I remember John, not long after Mam had told me what my mark meant and began teaching me about plants. His thin arm outstretched as he pointed to the ground. ‘My familiar is a brock, a big one, and it’ll punish any that harm me with its teeth and claws.’

Mam swept past with an armful of poppies, ready to strip the seeds. ‘Nowt there, John. ’Tis not your fate, I’ve told you.’

He looked at me, tears running down his face.

‘Why am I not chose?’ he asked.