She smiles at John, a serene beatific beam that sweetens and softens her. ‘Oh, son. You’ve done well.’ Her words are slow and thick. She cups his face. ‘These are what I need. His punishment shall be all he deserves.’ Between finger and thumb she picks something from the hand John holds out to her.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

‘Hair,’ John says.

‘Whose hair?’ I know, but will not accept the knowledge until I hear it from them.

‘That netter’s,’ John says, lifting his chin. He’s expecting me to argue.

Mam carefully carries the strands over to the figure that lies on the floor by the fire. She spits on the clay to soften it, kneading with her thumb, pulling a piece from the top. Looks to the floor at her side and whispers, ‘We shall set you to work, shall we not?’

‘Easy to sneak in and pick a few strands from their bed,’ John says.

Mam hunches over the figure, muttering as she places the hair on the softened clay and moulds the spare lump back on to secure it. The result is a grotesque parody of a person, and not the first I’ve seen in her hands.

Yesterday I would have shaken her for this, berated her for putting John in danger, for drawing the attention of the village when they were hunting us down only nights ago. Today, I am aligned with her, and all that means. What use is there in appeasing the villagers? They will burn us anyway. I am in no mood to acquiesce.

I will embrace what I am, accept the power that lies at the heart of this family. Somehow, I shall keep Annie separate, and safe. Keep her free from the mark, from the magistrate. The rope. But I will stand with Mam, true to myself, and burn if I must. I take her hand.

‘I want to try the potion.’

We stand on the hilltop, sky churning, rain droplets lacing the air, and I can taste salt on the breeze. Mam holds the bowl in both hands. The paste inside is thick and murky with a sour scent. I peer at it, heart kicking.

‘You don’t have to,’ Mam says.

‘I’m ready.’

‘It’s not easy. You’ll be changed.’ She shakes her head. ‘’Tis all I have to offer.’

‘What do I do?’

‘Dip in and spread it on your skin.’

I reach my hand over the bowl, wavering above it.

Mam touches my fingers. ‘Thinly,’ she says.

I scoop a handful. Cold and miry. Last chance to walk away, to fight my fate. ‘Mammy?’

‘Aye?’

‘Stay with me?’

She kisses my cheek, mouth soft where teeth once were. I wipe the paste on my arm.