‘I can’t put my arms down, brother,’ she moans. ‘It hurts to put my arms down. My back is sore.’

Dervorgilla’s arms, held above her head, are shivering with such force that they are almost a blur. Amidst the matted hair of her armpits are swollen protuberances with smooth surfaces. The swellings are hairless, yellow and thick, one under each armpit, like hidden apples growing out of her. One of them is covered in stale pus that has erupted at some former point. Around each buboe is a purple circular bruise, perfect as the concentric ripple of water.

‘Help me, brother,’ she says.

Conn swallows but his mouth is dry, full of the nauseous death in the room. His fingers tremble as he feels his way across the wall towards the door.

‘I am going to get you some milk, sister,’ he says.

‘You won’t tell anyone I am not making it myself,’ she pleads. ‘I would be so ashamed.’

‘Of course not,’ he says. ‘I will return shortly.’

‘You are so good,’ she says. ‘You always bring flowers to me.’

‘I will bring more to you; I’ll fetch them now.’

‘I missed you,’ she says. ‘We will not go so long again without speaking together?’

Her arms are still high above her head, almost touching the ceiling.

‘No, we won’t,’ he says. ‘I’ll return.’

He slips outside, slams the door after him, breathing the fresh air in gulps.

The crowd around the house has dispersed somewhat, but Eoin Preston, his head cocked to the side, remains. Conn motions for the hammer and nails. Eoin opens his mouth about to speak, and then pauses; instead placing a strip of timber against the door so its ends are overlaid across the doorframe.

‘We must get used to it,’ Eoin says.

Conn hammers in a nail. His hands are shaking so much that he drops the second one. Then later, he hits his thumb with the flat of the hammer. It must be broken, he thinks, but he does not feel anything. The crowd around him grows once again, looking on at the sealing of the house.

‘Who is it?’ Dervorgilla calls from inside, her voice slightly muffled. ‘Conn, is that you? I’ll be there in a moment. My clothes, I must fix them.’

Someone laughs at this.

‘Conn, is that you?’

It is a cruel voice, mimicking hers, somewhere behind him, and then the crowd falls silent again. Conn’s hands are shaking so much that now he drops the hammer. Eoin picks it up, and finishes off the work for him. Another Preston appears beside him, hammering more timber onto the doorframe.

‘Let’s go,’ Eoin says. ‘We will find the man who is to blame for this.’