Though his voice still carried, there was a weariness to his tone. Daniel held his breath. News would now come of the aftermath of the march upon the Haworths’, of Phyllis’s fate.

‘You know, I am sure, that Magistrate Thompson was discovered but two nights past behaving in a manner unfitting of his position, indeed unfitting for any of God’s children.’ He scrutinised those gathered. Startled glances and whispers passed between them. ‘In my humble role I have personally spoken to those in authority and arranged for his immediate replacement.’

At this the murmurs grew louder, for Magistrate Thompson had looked away from sins of all kinds. The parson had never condoned such actions, and had taken his opportunity now to condemn the magistrate fully, shaming him by speaking truth so openly. Any other minister would concoct a story of sudden illness to explain such a departure. Daniel was sickened too, but because this was confirmation of Phyllis’s suffering, and his failure to stop it at the time.

‘The new man,’ Parson Walsh continued, voice straining, ‘travels as I speak, and shall arrive in no more than a day, God willing. He is reputed to be a character of great moral standing, and strict adherence to the law. News that brings great comfort to you all, I do not doubt.’

His expression showed he was well aware of the fear his words caused. Seemingly exhausted by this speech, he walked back into the church, ignoring those shouting questions after him. Only then did Daniel remember the urgency of his cause, and realise Molly had left.

Otherness

Every morning I tell myself I will not go to the beck. Every afternoon I sneak away and look for the hag stone. ‘Good,’ I say when it is not there. The stinging in my eyes is caused by the breeze, nothing more.

At last I see it, dangling among the catkins from a thin strip of cloth threaded through the hole.

‘I shall not come,’ I say. I take it anyway.

He waits at the riverbank, looking out over the water so that I’ve the chance to watch him. The spikes of grass beneath my feet become soft and swampy. If I were to walk in, wash away the mark on my skin, and emerge on the other side, who would I be? A cleaner, better version of myself. That is the rebirth I long for.

There is nothing to this. Nothing to come of it. One evening will not break down the fragile dependence Mam has built up between us and the village. I push away thoughts of her. This is not a betrayal.

He turns and looks at me, though I make no sound, and waves then runs a hand through his hair. Awkward suddenly and regretting my decision to come, I walk closer. I don’t understand his interest in me; we are not the same kind, the path of our lives should not meet.