‘And how old are you?’ he says.

Very delicately, he daubs a stain from under her eyes. Dried blood falls away in small sheaves.

‘Turn over the dock leaf,’ she says, ‘it is dark.’

‘How old, my dear?’

‘Thirty-three.’

‘You cannot be more than nineteen,’ he says. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Well, if I am not thirty-three then I am sixteen,’ she says.

A crow squawks on the structure behind them. Hacquelebacq looks at it, but he is no longer afraid of the monstrosity.

‘Sixteen is a wonderful age,’ he nods, ‘the last great age of woman. It is all decline thereafter. Freshness evaporates, sagging commences. Folds, thick, sprout on the chin and chest like tumours. Bosoms become too large. The skin around the eyes splits like splintered wood. Strange, river-like marks appear on the thighs. It is all rather imperfect. That which should not be loose becomes loose; that which should be firm becomes soft, and that which should be soft becomes too soft. The body’s beauty disperses. Nothing remains, but husk. Woman was not made for all the years she bears. Man is a little better, but not by much.’

She closes her eyes, and he runs his thumb across her closed eyelid.

‘I was wont to visit Nobber,’ he says, ‘but if it is such an infectious and frightening place, as it seems to be, I shall skip over it. Other towns would serve me just as well. They are all the same, towns. They smell of corruption, and they have no proper drainage. Do you find me handsome, Emota?’

‘Slightly handsomer than a very ugly man,’ she answers. ‘Your hair is shockingly orange, which is loveable. You are not a Gael, though?’

‘No, I am no Gael. I am something else.’

He finishes with her face. She arches her neck to the side and her face is shining in the sun, white and reflective, but the rest of her is dusty, still salted with sweat, and splatterings of blood. He is slightly disappointed with the face staring up at him. The blood obscured several blemishes and an unhealthy pallor.

‘Still,’ he says.

‘Still what, my liege?’

‘Will you come with me?’

He lowers his face to her, and the scent of fermented cider on her breath is strong. Gagging momentarily, he holds his breath. It is not a bad smell, but it is thick and penetrative; his nostrils flare.

‘Where?’

‘To Trim, where life is easy,’ he whispers. ‘And will you kiss me?’

He discards the dock leaf he is holding and presents his cheek to her. After a few moments, he looks at her.

‘You will not?’

‘I would not leave the town in its sickness,’ she explains. ‘It has been good to me.’

‘It is too hot here,’ he says. ‘Let me lead you by the hand into the woods. They are cool.’

‘But the sickness still grows; I hear it breathing,’ she says.

‘Where is the sickness?’