I find a stool and set it out of the apothecary’s way, which I hope is answer enough. The man with the piebald flesh has red stockings under a layer of soot. It’s the Rooster. His eyes are partly open, though he seems to be asleep. I say the words, but he doesn’t stir. The apothecary clears his throat and moves a small jar on the table. Poppy oil.

I hear a voice behind me. ‘Would you hear my Recitation?’

My heart gets too big for my ribs. I know the voice even though I only heard it once. It’s the Country Mouse. ‘Tell me,’ he asks slow and thick, ‘is my arm woolly like a sheep?’

I tuck a laugh inside a cough. The burns cover his whole shoulder. I hope the poppy oil is strong.

‘You may speak your sins to me,’ I say. I expect my words to be crusty and hard, like bread left out too long, but they come out right.

Meg arrives carrying a full ewer of water. She sees me with the Country Mouse and makes herself useful squeezing drops of water into the Rooster’s mouth.

‘It’s you, isn’t it.’ The Country Mouse takes a few slow breaths. ‘The one who found my ring.’ His eyes stay on the ceiling like it hurts to turn his head. ‘My burns are not deep, not the worst of burns. Not like . . . him.’ He must mean the Rooster. ‘The apothecary says the great risk is corruption, but the pain might do me.’ His face almost smiles and, in spite of my weariness, or mayhap because of it, it makes me smile too. The room’s warm, so I unwrap my shawl and place it to the side. ‘So, I recite everything I’ve done wrong now?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I say as gentle as I can. ‘And I’ll tell you the foods I’ll eat.’

‘What if I don’t want to burden you with my sins, seeing as we’re old friends?’ This time I do laugh. It’s what he said when I first met him.

I look to Meg and the apothecary, but they pay me no mind. ‘You could give me your virtues instead,’ I tell him.

‘Why there’s a thing! How is it no folk has ever thought of that? Reciting our virtues before we die instead of our sins. How brilliant.’

In my mind I hear, you’re brilliant. I start to laugh a little again, but tears come out too, like I’m too worn out to know which is which. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve. ‘Speak.’

‘Well, now I can’t recall any virtues, only sins. Not praying enough. Thinking poorly of my father for sending me here to seek the Queen’s hand. Who am I to marry a queen?’

‘Loyalty,’ I interrupt. ‘That’s a virtue.’

‘What makes you say that?’