Another rap comes at the door. I still don’t know the answer, but there’s a soul that can’t wait. I place the collar back around my neck, securing it in place with a pin bent through the hinge where the lock sat. I go to meet the messenger.

Walking down the road, the collar bumps against my neck. It’s too loose. I worry that the pin will slip out, it’ll clatter to the ground, and the Makermen will come and lock the collar up again. But the pin holds. I arrive at an alehouse.

The Recitation’s for a girl not much older than me called Jenny Brown. Jenny’s abed with a cut foot that’s festered. She’s fevered, coming in and out of waking, and there’s red streaks running up her leg. Her mother sits close by with a wet cloth to cool her. She wears the apron of an alewife. Jenny’s da prays in the corner. They’re plain folk, like mine were. I wonder if my life might have been like this if things had gone another way.

It takes a moment for Jenny’s eyes to find mine and then another to grasp what they see. When they do, a little well of tears springs up and out of her eyes, down her cheeks. She clutches her mother’s hand. ‘I don’t want to leave,’ she whispers. ‘I don’t want to go without you.’

I know the fear of losing your ma and da. ‘You won’t be alone,’ I tell her. ‘So many folks have passed on to the Maker before you. They’ll be waiting.’

‘Auntie Rose,’ her mother says soft. ‘Grandpapa Saul.’

Jenny nods a little nod. A thought catches her. ‘I’ll be judged for my sins?’ Her mother squeezes her hand, but she can’t give her daughter comfort.

‘I’ll take your sins for you,’ I say.

There’s a break in Jenny’s fear, a little relief that pulls at her lips until they almost smile. ‘Will you?’ she asks.

I nod until she nods along with me, until her mother’s nodding too. Until Jenny’s smile breaks into a little choked laugh.

‘I haven’t done anything,’ she says. I think she’s talking about her sins, but then she keeps on going. ‘I haven’t done anything yet. In my life. I wanted to . . . I always hoped that when I passed, I would have done something. Something of substance. Been a mother. Or a midwife. Or even just made ale that folk wanted to tell their neighbours about.’ She laughs at this, but then it turns to crying. ‘All I’ve done is alehouse dishes.’

‘You’ve been a daughter,’ I tell her.

‘Did my life matter?’ her voice cracks.