On the hearth is an old iron pot dressed in cobwebs. She looks at me and snorts. Again, she doesn’t even need to say the words: Eating’s for work.

Outside there’s four boys trying to coax a beetle from under a stone. When the Sin Eater comes out of the door, they stand up like so many little soldiers.

‘Recitation for Bernard Harrington,’ says the plumpest one. He looks to the others.

They each give their message calling her to a Recitation or an Eating. The plump boy nods when they are done, and they go back to the stone. Must be a big beetle.

It’s not plain I’m meant to follow her, but it’s not plain I’m meant to stay, so I follow. She walks with long, strong steps, like the soles of her shoes are thick.

At the edge of Northside, along the tavern row, the whores sitting in the weak morning sun look down when she comes past and do not cast glances at her back. The same two boys in the same too-large men’s clothes scatter to the ditch and don’t play in her wake. No folk swerve out of her way because no folk get in it. It’s like she’s got a lamp shining yards in front of her telling folk of her approach. I try my best to keep up.

I’m out of breath when she finally stops at a fine house inside the town proper. There’s glass in the windows and a metal ring outside the door for a lamp to be placed. I look for a ledge to catch my breath, but she goes in direct for the Recitation, without a call or a knock or a moment’s rest.

Burning herbs cloud the stench of flesh and bowels, but I still smell them. The sweet mingles with the sour, turning my stomach. I’m glad there’s nothing in it to spill.

A goodwife with silk brocade on her kirtle comes through a door. She keeps her eyes down but raises a finger to point the way up a set of stairs.

I’ve climbed a step here and there, at the Makerhall and the like, but I’ve never climbed a whole set. Ladders, sure, but ladders are easy. There’s rungs to hold with your hands. The Sin Eater climbs these stairs like it’s nothing. I wobble behind, trying not to tumble. Trying not to picture my head cracking like an egg if I do. The climb takes my breath away as fast as beating a soiled rug clean.

In the bedroom the smell’s thicker. A maid’s waving a smouldering bundle in the air. That’s the herbs. Not thyme like we use when somefolk’s got the farts. Something from a stranger place. At the bedside is a bowl of fat leeches. Willow bark too.