I stroke the cat’s fur as I slip out of the back of the house. I want to go to the Domus Conversorum to thank the Instrument Maker for his help. But I don’t want to be seen. And I have an odd feeling, like I’ll be seeing him again.

Instead, I go through the woad dyer’s yard, since its stench makes it the last place any pursuers would want to go. I find a stout stick to help me walk on my sore ankle, and up I go along the river’s marshy edge, past where the pig men dump offal and where the rakers burn rubbish, on and on until there’s no more sign of folk except stone fences and pastures. I walk until my ankle can’t keep on.

The kitten and I make our bed for the night in a sheepfold. It’s musty and sour-smelling but warm enough. Mouse, as I’ve named the kitten, and I lick grease from the jar for our supper.

I’m not certain where we’ll go. But anywhere there are folk, they’ll need a sin eater.

AFTER

WHIPPED SYLLABUB

I COULD’VE THROWN AWAY the collar. I could’ve boarded a barge and made my way to a strange land. I had the choice. Instead, I chose to keep walking. I walked along wooded paths. Across fields. Through country villages. Whenever folk saw me, whenever their eyes widened at a lone beggar girl trespassing on their land, whenever their lips opened to call for a constable, I lifted my hand to the collar, and they buggered off. The collar proved right useful. I wore it every day of my walking. At night it sat in my box. I was wearing it when I found a place that felt right.

The town I’ve chosen is smaller than where I grew up. But there’s a school for Makermen that keeps it full of folk. There was a sin eater living here when I arrived, but she didn’t seem at all surprised when I opened the door to the house with the S hung over the door holding a skinny kitten.

She’s an old body, and nothing seems to surprise her much. I go with her to Recitations and Eatings, and sometimes when she’s doing poorly I go alone.

One day when autumn has begun to drive light from the mornings and evenings, I’m called to the Recitation of an old body. It’s a day when the old sin eater’s doing poorly. I put on my collar and go alone.