The woman is nearly as tall as the Willow Tree and much thicker. She places her bundle at the foot of the altar and opens a book. She joins the chant.

Ho ktistais,

Ho ktistais,

Thou art powerful and eternal, Maker.

They say the words over and over again, and then some more. I get dizzy with the sound. Mayhap I’m falling under whatever spell they mean to cast. I shake my head, and my collar clinks. The Willow Tree raises his hand, and the woman gets quiet.

I hold myself still, barely daring to breathe. The Willow Tree surveys the pews. He pauses for a moment on the bench in front of me. I hold my breath until it hurts. Then he takes up the chant again. When the woman joins him, I finally let my breath go in a long, quiet rush.

They chant until the beeswax candle burns down the width of three fingers. Then all at once they stop. The quiet pricks at my nerves.

The Willow Tree speaks softly. ‘Maker, we come here to your temple. We speak words more ancient than the Makermen’s. Your devoted servants, we seek protection for our mistress. We place her substance and her likeness before you.’ The Willow Tree takes his kerchief with the Queen’s hairs and puts it on the altar. Then the woman brings out a miniature portrait and lays it beside the hairs.

The Willow Tree bows. ‘Protect her, Maker, against the forces now at work to savage her. Protect her as you protect your champions.’ It’s some sort of black magic mixed with the Maker faith. I didn’t know there was such a thing.

The Willow Tree goes on. ‘We beg you to take our offering. A tribute given in exchange for your safeguard. A sacrifice. A life for life.’ It’s then that I hear a muffled shriek from the bundle at the base of the altar. The terrified cry of a baby.

18. SHORTBREAD

ALL AT ONCE I’m not a curse. I’m a girl alone in a terrible predicament. I try to quiet my breath, but it just comes all the louder. These two mean to murder a babe in a Makerhall not ten paces from me.

‘Silence it!’ the Willow Tree hisses. The woman drops to her knees and grabs at the squealing bundle. She raises it to the altar.

I feel a warm stickiness on my hands. I’ve squeezed my nails into my palms so hard, they’ve begun to bleed.

‘Do it presently!’ the woman whispers hard.

The Willow Tree reaches into his robe and takes out a short, thick knife. He chants again:

Ho ktistais,

Ho ktistais . . .

The bundle begins to kick, but the woman holds it tight, muffling the sound.

My knees are leaden, but I will them to rise.

The Willow Tree steps towards the altar. The bundle twists under the woman’s grasp.