I take the chalk from my sleeve and begin to draw along the wood walls of the jakes. What I draw is the letters from the tapestry right out of my memory. Before I even finish them, Fair Hair’s eyes widen, and a cry leaves her mouth. Then I draw more. I draw the mark for sanctuary from my door and the mark from my fountain. I draw all the Anglish letters I know, like M and A. I draw them all over the raw, wooden walls. Even I think, taken together, they look like witch’s marks. And it seems Fair Hair does too.

She shrieks the Maker’s Prayer for protection against evil. I say my own prayer that the music of the play is loud enough to cover her noise. Then I reach into my sleeve and remove the poppet I fashioned this morning. The white of the tallow almost glows in the jakes’ gloom. The poppet’s female shape is plain, as is the hay on its head, yellow to match Fair Hair’s blonde curls. I lift the tail of the brass S hanging from my collar, as good as any pin, and hold it above the poppet’s heart, as if I would slide it into the soft fat.

Fair Hair looks like she might puke. ‘Please don’t harm me! I never meant for them to die. Please.’

She is either more artful than I thought or terribly simple. She never meant for them to die? How could poison not kill? I raise the pin again.

‘Please! Please, don’t! I had no recourse but this. The Queen will kill me if she discovers I’m with child!’

That I believe.

She goes on. ‘She’s done so before. She had my love’s wife pushed down a stair.’ Her voice drops to barely more than breath. ‘I had to try to kill the Queen. I never dreamed the poppets would kill the others in her place, I swear to you. Corliss was a good woman. And the midwife. I did not know my witchcraft was so powerful.’ Why isn’t she speaking of the poison or the deer hearts?

Fair Hair drops her head. ‘He said you knew. He said the sin eater told him there had been a killing. He had just discovered that I was the one making the poppets. He tried to cut your throat to keep you from telling anyfolk.’ She begins to wail. ‘I am sorry, so very, very sorry.’ She looks at the poppet in my hand. ‘Please don’t kill me and my child.’

She’s been truthful, I can tell. She confessed her crime. But it’s not the right one. She planted the poppets, but not the deer hearts. She knows nothing about the poisonings. So who is the killer? My plan worked, and yet not at all.