Alannah takes the keys from where they lie in the corner, goes over to Mary, puts the crow’s feather between her teeth and unlocks the chains.

‘Run,’ she says, patting the girl on the shoulder.

Mary gets up, stumbles over to the corner where the tools are, in great disarray, kept. She takes a cleaver and approaches Raghnailt. For a moment, Alannah is still with fear, her breath drawn; certain that this mad woman is about to slaughter her mother-in-law. Instead, Mary curtsies, picks up the cider.

‘Thank you for all the drink, Mother Raghnailt.’

The girl leaves, sipping from the jug, the cleaver over her shoulder. The remaining women stare at the open door.

‘Perhaps,’ Alannah says, ‘we have made a mistake.’

A sense of acceptance pours over Raghnailt, but still her breathing is too quick and she can feel her own heart knocking at her throat.

‘I do not care any more.’

Mary is staggering down the street now, flailing around. She has nowhere to go, but still she moves forward. The sun, high, throws no shadow below her, and Raghnailt can see that she is moving towards the fountain.

‘Things will get better now that woman is gone,’ Raghnailt says.

‘You do not believe that,’ Alannah says, ‘even in yourself you do not.’

The room feels empty and peaceful with only two people in it. Raghnailt reaches out to take Alannah’s hand, desperate for some comfort, but Alannah does not see it. She leans out the door, her eyes searching the horizon.

‘It is coming,’ she says. ‘It’s almost here.’

Maybe it is …

Maybe it is not menacing, William thinks. Maybe it just is. It looms, though, and not many things can affect such a stance as that. It has not moved a mite since they first saw it. As they draw closer to the figure, Harold says, ‘It is so oddly shaped I would believe it to be a drowned man hung out to dry. Drowned men do double their weight, filling like bladders or stomachs, and can sometimes reach unimaginable proportion if they have too long been submerged in liquids.’

‘Well, then what of its blackness?’ William asks. ‘There are no black men in the world.’

‘Blackened by pitch,’ de Flunkl replies confidently. ‘I would say it was a robber, or a man-witch, who was boiled before he was drowned to ensure he had the properties of a human. Skin does crackle and blacken when heat is put on it through water.’

Saint John falls to his knees. Harold goes behind the boy and hauls him up by the arms.

‘Or give my prognostications some weight,’ Harold says, ‘and say it is what it most looks like, which is the state in which most things find themselves.’

The closer they get to the thing, the more apprehensive William becomes. His heart is knocking against his throat, making him feel nauseous.

‘What state?’ de Flunkl asks, his voice hurried. ‘Your words are foolish.’