Beyond all this is a last, little lane. Its houses are close on one another, slouching towards the river like they’re bent on drowning. In the middle of the lane is a house with an old brass S, just like the one on my collar, hanging above the door. Mouldering thatch, walls badly needing plaster, but a two-level house with shutters on the windows. The door’s not barred, so I push it open.

She sits on a stool, a jug in her hand. She waves me away without looking. I don’t know where to go, so I stay.

She’s heavy with flesh. It makes her seem a giant, though I doubt she’s taller than me. Middling height. She must have eaten a thousand sins. Her head pauses mid-drink like she’s listening. Then she turns.

I dare not look direct at her, but I feel her eyes walking me up and down like houseflies. My S gleams with a spark from the fire. Her breath stops, then drops out all at once like a sack of grain hitting the ground. Then she turns back to the hearth and takes another swig from the jug.

‘What shall I do?’ I ask. I mean now, but also more widely. What shall I do?

Her head swings over again, loose like a marionette’s. She’s well into her cups.

I look down. Then up. Do I look at her? She’s a sin eater, but I am too. I don’t know the manners for this.

I take a peek. Her eyes are like chestnut moons. She has a nest of honey hair and her skin’s honey, too. She’s handsome, but with a look like something’s been broken and won’t ever be fixed. She hiccups and offers the jug. I catch a scent as she reaches out. Wild onions. And then there in my mind is the picture. Her. Younger. Smaller. She’s the same sin eater as came to my mother’s Eating.

She’s still holding the jug. I’ve never tasted spirits.

What have you to lose? the jug asks.

I take it and tip it back. Warm liquid runs over my lips and down my chin. It burns my tongue so sharply, I shriek. Only a few drops get down before I’m coughing off the burn. She pulls the jug back.