Seth stands in the doorway, beaming, clutching a pail. Another offering, no doubt, though he clearly needs no potion today. He looks from Mam to me.

‘Now, then,’ he says. ‘What’s this?’

Bewitched

When at last the day was done Daniel stood in his room, rubbing soap on to a cloth, dipping it into the bowl of water ready to wash the filth from his body. He paused to rescue a drowning spider, catching it and crouching to tip it gently into a corner of the room, watching it scurry into a hole in the wall. His skin stung when he had finished washing, but the ashy scent of the soap left him refreshed and he crawled under the blankets, relieved to rest his exhausted bones.

Sleep denied him. His mind would not let his body settle, but went over instead the events at dinner that night, hearing Father’s words again and again until his head pounded. He could find no way around his plight.

The conversation about Molly had been halted by Parson Walsh arriving to collect the buttermilk they donated to the poor. For the first time, as Daniel had listened to his assurance that the family it was given to were deserving, he realised it was the Haworths. He had never truly understood the depth of Sarah’s poverty.

He turned, kicked off the blankets.

If Father would despise the match with Molly then he would be filled with fury if presented with the daughter of one he loathed. They would be forced to run away. No Bett to care for them, nor even Father to advise. He and Sarah would be banished, alone in the world to make a living, build a home. He could not see a path that did not lead them to a hovel, a diet of buttermilk. He was not bold, never had been, and had never envisaged facing such a foolhardy choice.

He was but a step away from safety.

Tomorrow, he could seek her out, tell her it could not be. Undo the damage he had done, take that one step to the life expected of him. A predictable, unchanging life.

He could see this life but remained untouched by it, for he would go through the whole of it unseen. His heart thudded, his breath failed. The only way to calm himself would be to bury his face against Sarah’s neck and breathe in the salt-scent of her skin, to see the turbulent blue of her eyes and hear her voice. She was both his turmoil and his comfort. And he wondered now if she had bewitched him, that he would yearn for her so, that he would act so recklessly.