The Instrument Maker’s eyes keep their crease but lose their warmth. ‘I have not this belief,’ he says as if sin eaters are unicorns or elephants that some folk believe in and some folk don’t.

And then, as if he truly is a spirit, he asks the very question sitting on my own tongue: ‘Why you not have fear?’ He goes on. ‘The vagabondi who come, they have fear because all the lies your folk tell of Jews. They leave us in our peace. Why you not have fear? Why you come molest us?’

Molest them? I laugh before I know it.

The Instrument Maker roars at me in anger.

I stumble, dropping the candle. He’s a fiend. Or mad.

He runs at me, and I scramble for the door. But it’s the candle he’s gone to, stamping out the flame just as it’s catching the wood curls strewn on the floor. ‘Leave!’ he screams.

I’m backed against the door, my heart thudding against my rib bones.

‘Leave!’ he screams again.

But I won’t. I squeeze my eyes shut, and hush my pattering heart. I am a curse. I have Daffrey blood.

I hear the Instrument Maker’s angry breathing.

I live with lepers and actors, I tell myself. I survived Black Fingers. And Black Fingers’s cut-throats. I am here to mend my muddle. As I say these things to my heart, it gets steadier. My guts get stiller.

The Instrument Maker is still breathing hard, his body ready to fight. Nevertheless, I summon my blood and do what I’ve come for. I walk slow and steady to the worktable and trace the letters from the tapestry in the wood dust.

The first letter like a little N.

The leaning apple tree with the gallows under it.

The second little N with a worm below.

The Instrument Maker’s breath settles, and his head tilts as he looks over the letters.

‘I do not know your words well,’ he says.

I smooth out the wood dust and try the tapestry letters once more.

The Instrument Maker comes in closer. His body loosens. ‘Ah, is Hebrew, yes?’

I don’t know. I point to the letters.

‘Chav-vah,’ he sounds out, as if hawking up spittle. He traces the letters with a brown finger, its nail pared short. ‘Chavah,’ he repeats. ‘Why you want know this word?’ he asks quiet.

I need him to tell me what it means. I point at it again.

‘You come here for this?’

I nod.