She took my hand, guiding me towards the chancel, to the recess that held the relic of St Jade – her mummified foot, beneath a dirty wrapping of linen, in a box of smoked glass. In the fourteenth century, Jade had quite literally stamped out evil on Lark. Impervious to venom, she used her bare feet to destroy the poisonous snakes that once picked off our children, driving her heel into the serpents’ throats. A painting above the case depicted her in action, mouth wide in ecstasy, black hair and green robes flowing, knee raised in preparation, a startled creature on the ground beneath her.

‘Are we to pray to St Jade?’ I asked.

‘If you like,’ Cat said, meaning ‘no’.

She reached up for the wooden voting box that rested beside the glass case. Here was another relic of our past, seventeenth century probably. It was a means for islanders anonymously to report anyone they suspected of witchcraft. At school, we were taught that it was a symbolic object and never used. It merely acted as a physical reminder not to meddle with black magic, lest your neighbour be watching. It was easy to imagine our barbaric forebears using that box though, to settle grudges or to seek vengeance. Even as a child, I knew my young ears were being given a softened version of history.

Cat handled the voting box with a roughness unsympathetic to its age, popping the hinged door underneath and shaking free the dead insects and bat droppings within.

‘Nope,’ she said, ‘no one has put your name in here.’

‘Don’t joke,’ I told her. ‘I’m serious.’

‘So am I. Take this.’

From her pocket she retrieved her Agnus Dei, placing it in my hand – the remainder of an Easter candle crushed and imprinted with the image of a lamb. I had one of my own on the mantelpiece at home.

‘So, is it working?’ she asked. ‘Are you melting? Do you feel your insides burning up?’

‘No.’

‘Of course not.’ She reclaimed the wax block. ‘Witchcraft isn’t practised by accident.’

‘But I did.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I did practise it. On purpose.’

Cat set the box back and folded her arms, unconvinced. ‘How?’

‘With cards.’

She shrugged. ‘So have I.’

‘You!’

‘You need to know your enemy, don’t you? And, well, I can see how it might be done for fun. Did you do it for fun?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Then I forgive you.’ She grinned; it was that easy for her. I had to wonder if this was something a mainland upbringing gave you. Ben had it too – the ability to shake things off, not to worry. ‘You didn’t do it because you are wicked or possessed. I think God can forgive you too.’

‘And Jacob Crane?’

Her smile faltered, his name echoed about us – an anomaly, an intrusion.

‘I don’t speak for him,’ she said.