Mrs Eder did little, though that was hardly surprising. She lay on the bed. Took food and water when it was offered, but declined conversation in those moments she was free of the gag. In many ways I admired the strength she showed in those hours. So did Christophor. In his years he had seen numerous men and women in similar situations. He had seen the kind of rage and anguish I had expected, and hardened himself against insult and plea alike. Rarely had there been displays of dignity. Dignity, which was different to resignation – that he had known. It came to all of them eventually.

When it was time, he entered the cell and gave her some dried ettiene to chew. More broken souls had spat it back at him in the past.

‘No need to undress,’ he said.

She shook her head in agreement.

‘Blanket?’

‘Please.’

He helped her back onto the bed, pulling the threadbare blanket over her.

‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘you know of a way, hands bound and without the use of your tongue, of freeing yourself. Maybe you can explode the lock. Melt the bars. Crack earth and sky and fly out of this meagre prison.’ He gestured about the place. ‘But I never met a witch that can outdo a pistol aimed at their heart.’ He showed her the gun.

She didn’t look scared. She met this with the same knowing calm she had shown that entire night. He felt it, then, a twinge of what I had felt for some time: she knew more than he. She knew that her being there was somehow planned or predestined. But it was only a twinge, and easily brushed aside.

He snuffed all but one candle, and then performed one last duty. He wrote me a short note. Then he pulled a chair close to the bars and, good as his word, loaded his pistol. He held it, aimed at her heart, until he was sure she’d fallen asleep. Finally, he chewed his own ettiene.

31st October 1721

How many times in my life had I woken with a pistol in my hand? Too many, that much was clear. Miraculously, I had never fired one – not deliberately nor by accident. But it said something about a man and his work if he had to sleep with a gun in hand.

This one I nearly dropped before remembering it was loaded. I put it on the floor, pointing away from the cell, then hurried to find the key. He was so arrogant, my night-brother, he didn’t even attempt to hide or secure it. I found it right there in his coat pocket.

I fumbled with the lock. My mouth was dry from the ettiene, though my palms were damp.

Before I could open the cell door, her hand came through the bars to still mine.

‘No, Alexsander.’

I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. Instead, I looked at her fingers. Long, thin, but not delicate. There was a strength in them, like a pianist’s. I had never thought to ask if she played. With a hand that didn’t bleed.