His smile when I reach him and hand him the stone is so genuine it confuses me further. We’re silent for a moment, then speak at the same time.

‘I brought a poultice.’

‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

I am holding out the pot of paste, arm stiff and unnatural. ‘For your …’ The words fade. I gesture to my own forehead.

He takes the pot. ‘Thank you.’ He sniffs it and dips a finger in.

‘Camomile and thyme,’ I say.

He tries to apply the cream, smearing it over his eyebrow and missing most of the cut.

I laugh, and take the pot, at ease with him now though I cannot fathom why. ‘Here, let me.’ Without thinking I spread the lotion over his cut as I would with Annie, fast and gentle. ‘There,’ I say.

‘Thank you. Did you – who made this?’ he asks.

‘Mam.’

He nods. ‘How does the cunning – what does she do?’

I try to interpret his words, listen for the suspicion in them. Think again of the fear he showed when he first knew me, of the chafe of rope against skin. Perhaps this is all a trick, enticing me to confess our guilt. This would explain his interest, but as I stand here with him I don’t feel it to be true. I feel trust. I don’t know why. He leans forward, anxious to hear my reply.

‘Healing,’ I say. Sometimes. And more, so much more – a curse if you can pay for it, or if you’ve hurt her. A love potion, if your chosen one does not feel as they should. A brew of poppy seeds to bring lightness to the soul and pictures to the mind that only witchcraft can conjure.

‘That’s quite a skill,’ he says.

Yes. One that I am also born to. A thrill of both yearning and foreboding burns through me. ‘Her grandmother taught her.’

‘I came prepared this time,’ he says. ‘Come see.’ He takes my hand and leads me up the bank to the trees. We’re careful not to look at each other. We’re careful to pretend that he has my hand only to guide me.

Under the protective branches of the alder lie his boots and hat, a folded piece of grey material, a cloth-wrapped parcel and a flint and steel. He gestures to the neat stack as though it’s a pile of gold.

‘See. We shall have a fire and a feast tonight.’

‘A feast?’ My mouth fills and I wonder what food he offers. All I’ve eaten today is a bowl of watery pottage, flavoured with clam and nettle.

‘I brought a few bits but that’s for later, let’s start with the fire.’

Looking around at the fresh green shoots of grass, I doubt his ability to light them. I care more to know what food he’s brought but don’t want to betray my interest.