“Boots,” Tom said. “A pair of black boots, the swirl of a cloak. The second I looked, the singing stopped and then . . .” Tom faltered. “It’s all in pieces in my head, miss. There was a gloved hand across my mouth for a second, so I could not cry out, and then a rag stuffed in with summat on it that smelt of violets and tasted of burning. Before long it was as if I were half awake, half dreaming.” Tom looked into the fire as he talked, and the dancing flames dappled his face. “It felt like the monster was strong—very strong—throwing me up onto his shoulder and carrying me like an empty sack, like I was hardly nothing. I tried to tell myself to fight, miss, but my arms and legs wouldn’t do owt. Next thing I remember, I was thrown hard onto the floor of a carriage. The boots were on me, one on the back of my neck, pressing down. I was afraid I’d choke—I nearly did! Then a breath was allowed. I was too afraid to cry, for fear of being choked again. I had never known how much I wanted to live until that moment, miss. Then—I don’t know why—the coach stopped quite sudden, with a jolt. I heard shouts from the road. The monster took his boot off me, perhaps to see what the trouble was, and I knew that was my chance. I kicked open the door and tumbled out of the carriage, scrambled up on to my feet. I had no shoes on, but I ran. We were high up—I know that—it was cold, and the wind was behind me. I ran. I didn’t care where, nor did I mind the pain in my feet. I just had to get away. There were footsteps coming after—more than one set. I kept going, even though they were upon me, and then . . . then there were no ground under my feet. I was falling. I hit rock and was beaten from boulder to boulder as I tumbled. I don’t remember when I stopped falling, but dawn was breaking when I came to. I suppose the monster thought me dead when I fell—I half supposed myself dead and all. I knew if I stayed where I was, I would be, so I got up, and somehow, though my leg were proper injured, I walked and walked until I found a road, and then a cart. I wasn’t more than three miles from Halifax, the driver told me. He gave me a pile of sacks to keep warm under and took me back to Crossed Keys. I went to Miss Goddard. I told her—I said, ‘The monster is real.’”

Charlotte looked at Miss Goddard, who had pressed her hand to her mouth as she listened to Tom recount his tale.

“And you had no reason to doubt his story?”