I sneak closer behind Father so I can get a glimpse of our uninvited guest. He is a long-limbed, pock-faced man. Lashed to the saddle behind him is a large, shapeless bundle wrapped in a threadbare blanket and tied around with rope.

The man slips off the horse’s back and lands heavily on the ground. “Thomas Luxton?” he barks. “The apothecary?”

“I am he.” Behind his back, Father’s hand tightens on the gun.

“May I speak to you, sir?”

“You already have, sir.” Father seems to double in size until he fills the doorway. “What is your business? You arrive like a fire wagon racing to put out a blaze. But as you can see”—Father gestures in such a way as to reveal his weapon—“we have no need of assistance.”

At the sight of the gun, the man steps back. Then he sees me hiding behind Father. For a split second our eyes meet. I know mine are filled with fear.

He sighs and stamps the mud off his boots, then reaches up to remove his three-cornered hat. He wears a wig, as is the fashion, but when he takes off the hat he knocks his wig slightly askew. Suddenly I am no longer afraid, for how can one be afraid of a man in a crooked wig?

“Forgive me,” he says gruffly. “There is no need to defend yourself; I mean you no harm. My name is Tobias pratt. I am sorry to disturb you and will not stay one moment longer than necessary. But I ask that you let me enter your home briefly, so that you and I may speak—in private.”

When he says “in private,” I think he must mean out of my hearing, for who else is here but Father and me? But the bundle on the back of Pratt’s horse stirs.

“Water,” it moans. Whether the voice is young or old, male or female, I cannot say.

“Shut your mouth, boy. You’ve had plenty of water today.” Pratt turns back to Father. “What I have to say will be of interest to you, Luxton, I swear it. Will you hear me out?”

Father says nothing but stares at the pitiful, ragswaddled creature on the horse.

“Water,” it moans again, but this time quite low and sad, as if it has no hope of being heard.

I would fetch the creature some water; what harm could there be in that? I am about to ask permission to do so when Father speaks.

“As you wish,” he says abruptly. “Come inside and say what you have to say. The sooner you are gone, the sooner I can get back to my work.”

“Father, ought I to get some water for …?” I nod my head in the direction of the horse and its strange burden.

“Leave the monster be for now,” Pratt interjects. “After you hear my tale, you may do with it what you will.”