She shakes her head, lifts me to my feet.

I hold on to her for a moment. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right, lass. You didn’t mean it. Come in.’

Mam helps me to the table, sits me down, fills a cup with water and passes it to me. ‘It’ll not be long before Seth comes with buttermilk, I’ll warrant,’ she says. ‘That’ll build your strength.’

My stomach turns at the thought. But the water I drink in gulps, without pause.

She’s wrong. I meant to hit her. Would that I hadn’t. I was not myself. Not my old self. I was whatever I have become now. The darkness I opened up to when I used the potion streaming out of me and hurting her. I wish I’d not let my anger drive me to let it in.

The door bursts open and Annie lands in my lap. Smell of fresh air and mud. The colour in her cheek and light in her eyes make me realise how far from well I feel. I press my face into the soft flesh of her neck. She holds both her hands out of sight.

‘You’re up, you’re better, aren’t you?’ She watches my face, little crease developing above her eyebrow. ‘I can see you’re better,’ she says, uncertain.

I sit as straight as I can. ‘All better. Must have been your medicine. Thank you.’

‘You making tonics too now, little squirrel?’ John says. ‘All taking up the family trade.’ His voice strains for a false lightness.

I try to stand. ‘We need to search.’

‘Mam did it,’ Annie says. ‘And John maked the circle and helped me ring the bell.’

I glance at John. He shrugs and looks away. ‘Takes no time. Stops her bawking.’

‘I’ve bringed you some things, sken,’ Annie says. She holds out her hands, one clutching a muddy, discoloured metal object, the other a bunch of dandelions, brash and bright, bitter scent as she thrusts them into my face.

‘It’s a good piece,’ she says, brushing mud-clags from metal. Her fingernails are embedded with soil. ‘What is it?’

John takes it from her, feeling the weight in his hand. Turns to Mam.

‘Candlestick,’ she says.

John studies it, running his finger around the bowl at the bottom. Annie beams at him. ‘Proper treasure, squirrel,’ he says. ‘Not even broke.’

He hands it back to her and she hugs it to herself, rocking it like a babby. I wonder, now, of those that owned it. An object too grand for us. Candles are a luxury I can barely remember and one Annie has never known. She will not understand what she has found. But once, this lit the evenings for someone, spilling light on to their table, guiding them to bed. A life of comfort, torn through by suffering.

I shiver. Turn to the dandelions.