Next time? I look at him quickly and he catches my eye, flushes.

‘And you bring a neckerchief to keep warm,’ he says.

‘I’m warm enough,’ I say. Then, though I don’t know why I’m drawn to tell him the humiliating truth, ‘I don’t have one.’

I glare, daring him to show pity or embarrassment. Nothing. A small nod is all.

This conversation is pointless. There can be no next time. Mam would drag me away by the hair if she knew I were here, and I know well enough the reasons why I cannot see him again, even if I wished to.

‘I—’ He reaches into his pocket, brings out the stone I gave him. ‘I – we could meet here. In the – at night. I’ll leave the stone, I’ll tie it to this branch, see?’ He points at an alder at the edge of the cluster of trees. ‘If I can come that night, I’ll leave it there.’

He has lost all sense. We both know this cannot be.

‘And you, you come and look, and if you can meet me take the stone. Then I shall know. And I’ll wait for you.’

‘I shall not come.’

‘I’ll wait.’

I dream, briefly, of finding the stone and meeting him as the light fades. Of a fire. A different life. There is a rustle again behind me, a feeling of being watched. ‘I cannot come,’ I say.

I run through the door to see my family. Safe. The house is smoky and dim, save for the light of the fire, before which they all sit, crammed on the ground by the edge of the table.

‘Sken,’ Annie says, skipping over to me, waving something in my face.

I laugh, gather her bony warmth into my arms, nuzzle her twig-taffled hair. ‘Hold it steady then, I can’t see.’

‘I maked it. John’s helping me.’ She holds out a block of wood, crudely hewn into the shape of something unrecognisable.

John looks up from where he sits, sharpening his knife. ‘A squirrel for my little squirrel,’ he says and Annie skips back over to him. He rests a thin arm over her shoulder, giving her the knife and guiding her hand with his as she scrapes at the wood. Her face solemn with concentration, tongue poking from her lips. I wish now that I had invited Daniel in, let him see John as the boy he is, not the demon they all fear.

‘Where are those teeth?’ Mam sits cross-legged, moulding a lump of clay, her bare feet leaving prints in the spilled ashes. I look to see any sign of Dew-Springer, but find none, and wonder again at the hare I saw earlier.

My happiness dries and shrivels. ‘They weren’t there.’