My voice is not as full as I would wish. It comes out more as a bark. ‘The Unseen is now seen.’

‘Oh,’ she says, sharp-like. Then ‘Oh,’ again, this time as if a bit lost. She shifts in the bed, her papery skin rustling against the sheets. ‘Are my sons here?’ She turns her head as if looking about the room. ‘I would have them witness.’

‘Speak your sins,’ I say, taking a stool.

She girds herself up, as if readying for a great speech. ‘I’ve done it all, all the worst and worse than that,’ she says with a sort of pride. ‘Must send a cook from the Orient to prepare some of my worser sins. You won’t fit the foods on the coffin lid.’ She waits for the words to land. The room is silent but for the whispers of her skin. ‘Can you call to my sons? I would have them witness.’ She’s prepared her Recitation, a celebration of her rogue life. But it’s the sort of thing that wants an audience, and none has come to hear. A blade of pity pokes in between my rib bones. I sit up straighter, to throw it off.

She coughs sharp, mildewy phlegm, and reaches out a shaky arm for a cup. Her arm’s thin as a bird’s. In my mind I feel her hand’s back on my face, her knuckles striking my cheekbone. I feel the edge of a thrown ewer hitting my hip, leaving a half-moon scar to match my half-moon Daffrey smile. I remember a broom handle in her papery hands crashing against my ear. If I took her wrists in my hands now, I could snap them. Against the stool, I feel the breadth of my thighs. Pressing into my sides, I feel the heft of my arms. My breath drops deep and low into my belly and comes out as a laugh. She will never hurt me again.

‘What is it?’ she asks, nervous as a horse at my laugh.

‘None have come for you,’ I say. ‘Name your sins, old woman.’

Her eyes try to make me out. ‘You’re the bastard.’

‘Your blood. Your daughter’s daughter.’

‘She never would deny you. Couldn’t resist the fruit of her own body. More fool her. Wise girls have the midwife kill the bastard before it makes its first cry. I offered to do it for her. Once it’s out and living, you never can deny it.’