Up in my loft, I take off my new shawl and shoes. I unpin my brass collar. I turn the collar around, peering close at the thing that so recently bound me. It was to remain locked forever by the Maker’s will. But it’s unlocked now, and the earth hasn’t split, the sky hasn’t fallen. I don’t believe Jane and the Instrument Maker are right. But mayhap they’re not wrong, either.

You’re just a thing, I tell the collar, trying out the words.

It looks right back at me, hard. It wants to be as big as a Makerman. It wants to be as weighty as the Maker’s word. It wants to lock me up with no breadth for choices. But it can’t any more.

You’re just a bit of metal now, I say. Then I add, a little tremble in my guts, a bit of metal that I own.

I listen, all nerves, fearing what it’ll say back. But it says nothing. It’s quiet.

So I go on. You’re like a smithy’s tongs or a washerwoman’s apron. Tomorrow I’ll wear you because I need you for my work. Then I place the collar in my box on the shelf, where it will sit until I need it again.

It feels good to do it. I’m still unsure about Jane and the Instrument Maker’s words, but I’m on firm ground again. Like I’m no longer an apprentice. As if in putting the collar where it belongs, I’ve become the master.

27. COCK BRAIN TART

THE MORNING OF the revels, the household wakes early again. I remove my collar from my box and pin it in place. Then I wrap my new shawl with care over it so it can’t be seen until I’m ready. I put on a head coif from one of the old sin eater boxes. It’s part of my disguise.

I promise I’ll return it, I swear to the box.

I pull on my new corked shoes. In my sleeve I place the tallow, hay, and chalk I bought at the market. Then I pick up my pail of two-day-old piss.

I stand in wonderment, taking in the sight of the field. It’s like a fairy kingdom. The tentpoles are all topped with crowned falcons, and along the eaves where the tent roof meets its walls, there’s a cloth of gold fringe.

But the true marvel is the paintings. A midsummer night with a sky of stars above blooming moonflowers and evening primroses frames the tent entrance, so it looks like you could walk right into the painting. My chin drops with staring.

‘Move it along!’ shouts a man hauling a fountain with two others. They place the fountain just in front of the tent opening.