‘What shall I d—’ I begin to ask again. Before the words leave my mouth, she leaps up, hands grabbing at my face. Her fingers dig all about my cheekbones, her thumbs under my chin. I think she means to put out my eyes. I bat her with my strong, washerwoman arms. But it’s not my eyes she wants; it’s my mouth. She clamps it shut, her nails biting through my cheeks and chin. I’m near as strong as her, but when she does no worse than hold my jaw shut, I fall still. She gives my head a shake. A good, rough shake that would knock my teeth if they weren’t held together. It’s as plain as if she were saying it: I am not to talk. Even to her.

She returns to the stool. I find a dirty rug by the fire.

I’m a sin eater, I say to the red embers. What does this mean?

It means you’ll never again see folk smiling at you with their eyes, the embers say back.

It means you’ll never again feel the press of a chest against yours in a hug.

It means you’ll never sit with Lee or Tom, giggling together, eating blackberries and watching the swallows dive.

The embers keep going, cracking and popping. I raise my hands to my ears so I don’t hear the words they spit, but they needle their way straight into my heart.

You’ll never marry.

You’ll never bear a child.

You’ll never have a lover or even just a good friend.

The only one you’ll ever have is her.

I look at her, the Sin Eater, a wooden figure staring into the fire.

The deadness is creeping back into my heart. I hold Da’s ring, wrapping both fists around it.

She’s my kin now, I tell the ring.

I have a roof over my head. A fire to keep me warm. These are good things. I look again at the Sin Eater. Her flesh pushes against her clothes. I always dreamed of having such a beautiful shape. A body of plenty. I’ll have that too.

The deadness slows its creeping. My hands soften around Da’s ring. My tongue’s still throbbing as I fall asleep on the dirty rug.

She rouses me with her foot. It’s morning. She wears her same clothing, but her hair’s tied back. I sit dumbly, the rug about my shoulders. The fire’s out, and early-spring cold nips in from all corners.

She walks to the door and waits. I hastily pull my shift down and my stockings up, my hair down and my collar up. I feel along my cheekbones. There are four half-moon cuts on each, made by her nails last night. My tongue feels swollen but less painful. I’m dreadfully hungry.