There’s two new faith Makermen in black robes standing by the side door of the court today. I wonder if they’re here to pray for us. The recorder runs through all the girls. Just like before, he says their crime and asks if there’s any folk to speak for them. The sisters who worked in the kitchens have to pay a fine, but they’ll go home today.

The recorder waits until the end, until all the sentences are pronounced, to call my name. This time he rushes it. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t even look up. He just says something about communion. Or commuted. My sentence is commuted. I only follow that I am not to be hanged or fined. I am to be given a different punishment. There’s a murmur through the other girls. Blood thumps up the back of my skull. It thumps in my ears. A small, green hope buds in my heart. One of the sisters nods encouragingly, and I smile back. So I don’t quite catch it when he says, ‘To become a sin eater.’

‘Pardon?’ I call stupidly. As if recorders wait on girls’ questions.

The recorder motions to the Makermen. Something glints in the first one’s hand. The other carries a small box and a forked stick. They walk towards me, and suddenly I want nothing more than to pull a bedsheet over my face and hide. The first Makerman raises a heavy brass collar with a large sloping S hanging from its front and a thick lock in the back. Holding the collar above my head, he says old words:

The sin eater walks among us,

Unseen, unheard

Sins of our flesh become sins of hers,

Following her to the grave

Unseen, unheard,

The sin eater walks among us.

The Makerman places the collar around my neck. It’s heavy and cold, except where his hands touched it, and I have a sudden image of a horse’s bit, like he might slide it up into my mouth. But it’s worse what happens next. The second Makerman takes hold of the collar’s lock and shoves the shackle in. Even my guts feel the wards catch.

I grab at the collar. My fingers work their way around, feeling for the lock. I pull with all the strength I’ve got. With strong washerwoman arms. Thick, callused fingers. The brass cuts into my neck, but still I pull. I pull so hard I topple myself right over. It’s stuck fast.

I start to cry out, ‘Why me?’ But the moment the words take shape in the air, voices all around rise up together, saying the Maker’s Prayer:

Maker mine, forever of the sun’s light

Miracles be wrought from your name

Protect us sinners,

Now and at the hour of our deaths.