He had never seen the house up close. There was only one with roof still intact, cowering against the hillside, a battered shack keeling into the ground, surrounded by ten or so crumbling remains. No animals. Nothing to show it a home. The hill below aflame with lights. Ignoring his fear of the spirits that surely drifted through the empty doorways and rose from ground furrowed where bodies lay, he dismounted and ran across the scrub, beating on the door, praying this was the place. It opened to reveal a slight, female shape. A sibilant, cracked voice took him by surprise.

‘Not often we have a gentleman riding up on horseback. A fine creature, sir. After an amatory? I’ve a potion that will make a honey-sop of any girl.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Or boy.’ She held out a bowl of grey paste that stank bitter-sweet and writhed slowly.

‘Where’s Sarah?’

She stepped out and Daniel realised that this straggle-headed, sunken-faced woman was Sarah’s mother. The same blustery eyes stared at him. ‘You’ll have no potion for my Sarah.’

‘I – no, they’re coming for her.’

‘Coming why? Who?’

‘People, they’re angry, she attacked Sam Finch. Look.’

He turned to point out the lights snaking up the hill, but she had already seen.

‘Fool lad, it’s John they want not Sarah,’ she said, dropping the bowl at her feet and yanking the flimsy door closed.

Daniel could not take in her words. Was Sarah safe? ‘Where is she?’

The mother was already heading for the woods. Scent of smoke carried on the sea breeze.

‘In the village, but first you keep those men and their torches from my door.’

‘What if she comes back?’

‘It won’t matter. Because you’ll have turned the pack away.’ She gasped and ran towards the trees. ‘Oh – Annie!’

The crowd gained, their yells and the pounding of their feet reaching him clearly now. Almost every village man there, all had either taunted or ignored him. He could leave, now, before he was seen. Run to the village, find Sarah. Hope she had a home to return to later.

Daniel rested his face against the warm, damp neck of the mare, stepped on a small tumble of wall that he thought had once housed a family’s pig, and climbed on to her again. He dared not turn to look, fancying he felt the stare of the spirits whose home he had just trod upon at his back. Rode slowly to face the mob.

The smell of burning fat and smoke overwhelmed the salt air. Faced with the jeering crowd and dancing lights, the mare snorted and reared, almost sending Daniel plunging to the ground. He clung on, hushing and soothing. The pack cowered and staggered back from her flailing hooves. He had their attention, at least.