I say three prayers on the grave. Two to the Maker, first in thanks for guiding me safely out of the field, even though my ankle’s a swollen wreck and my hand badly burnt. And, second, a prayer for safe passage out of town. The third prayer is to my mother for teaching me all the things I thought I didn’t want to know. I see now I needed my Daffrey blood to come this far. To make good on my promise to Ruth. And I’ll need my Daffrey blood again in the coming months. I finish the prayers as always, May it be. May it be. May it be.

In the darkest part of the night, I return to Dungsbrook. Brida is sitting on my-now-her rug. Jane and her children are asleep on the other side of the hearth. I take off the skirt I took from the actor behind the stage and place it next to Brida. A gift. I wish I had something for Paul.

Brida sees my burnt hand and takes a noisy breath through her nose hole. She points to the drippings jar by the cook pot. Grease. I put a good dollop on my hand and slip the jar into my apron pocket for later.

Up in the loft I return the coif I took. Then I open Ruth’s box one more time. I touch her ring and the charms made for her babes who didn’t live. I know now why the women were poisoned. Whether Mush Face will be caught and who placed deer hearts on the coffins are still mysteries. But I did my best by Ruth. I know it.

All at once the door below opens. My whole body tightens, sure it’s Black Fingers and his guards. But there’s no voice, just soft footsteps. Must be Paul or Frederick returning from the revels. I stay still and quiet for a good long while after the footsteps cease, just to be sure. Then I collect my own box. I drop Fair Hair’s lock of hair inside. Like the things in the other sin eater boxes, no folk will know the whole story of it. But it’s something. A marker that I’ve lived and I’ve mattered.

There’s a soft mewling as I climb down the ladder. Jane’s baby in its sleep, I think. But it’s not. It’s a kitten. Right in the middle of the floor. Whoever opened the door must have left it. What an odd thing. The kitten has a strip of cloth tied around its neck. The cloth matches my lost shawl.

I run to the door and look out, but the road’s empty. Back inside I stare at the kitten. I scoop it up and drop it in my apron pocket with the drippings jar.