My granddam steps out, shrivelled and shaking on a cane. ‘Never called for you,’ she says to the puddles. ‘Get on now.’ She makes the Maker’s sign across her chest and hips.

I shake my hair and give a half smile, so she sees who I am. She hesitates. Steps from one foot to the other. ‘Never called for you,’ she says more quietly.

‘What’s this?’ I hear a man’s voice coming to the door. My uncle Misgett. His eyes narrow, then he sees the S and looks away. ‘My sister’s bastard come to mark us with Eve’s eye. Drive her off.’

My cousin picks up the first stone, then my uncle. Then my granddam.

I walk without direction along the middle of the road, letting folk make way or not, numb to the cries of cart men and bustling goodwives. I make turns with no reason, lost as to where to go.

The lane I’m on widens into a little square I’ve never been to. It’s got a stone fountain in the centre for folk to collect water from. My face is flushed and hot, so I take a scoop. It tastes poorly, like metal. As I step back something catches my eye. It’s a marking on the fountain stone made in charcoal. Two straight lines with a wavy one between. Another witch’s mark.

Am I followed by a witch? Is this why Bessie gave me such news? Why my own kin threw stones? Why I’m dogged by the worst fortune a folk could have?

No, if I was cursed, it happened long before now. It began the day my mother bore me as a bastard. Her death, then Da’s, then becoming a sin eater. Really, I’ve been fully fugged my whole life.

Two goodwives come chatting into the square with pails for water. One of them sees me dipping my hand into the fountain and pulls the other woman back the way they came.

My first thought is that they saw the witch’s mark too. But of course that’s not it. It’s me. I’m what sent them running.

I’m worse than a witch’s curse.

A laugh comes up from my belly. Just like Bessie said, always at a poor moment. And then a thought comes. Say the mark on the fountain was a witch’s curse. What harm could it do me? Is there anything worse than what’s already been done? My laugh gets bigger. What have I left to fear? I ask the fountain.

It can’t think of a thing.

I scoop up a long drink of water direct from the pool, fouling it again with my touch, good and proper. It still tastes wretched. That makes me laugh even more. After despairing for so many days, the laughter feels so good.