I remind myself of the Makerman’s words when I was made a sin eater. If I serve faithfully enough, I might join the Maker when I die. The words rub up against the shame but don’t much ease it.

A stool has already been placed in front of the coffin. The Sin Eater sits down and begins. No words. No nothing. Despite her girth, she eats carefully, cracking the egg, peeling it with nimble fingers, until it’s glossy and white. She dips the small end into the salt and takes a tiny bite, chewing so long it must be mush in her mouth. I summon the courage to reach out for the bread. No, the porridge. No, the honey. The goodwife sweeps behind me, and a stool hits lightly against my knee backs. A seat for me.

‘Thank ye kind—’ I start out of habit. The Sin Eater wheels on me with bullish eyes. I clench my jaws together. She turns back to the coffin. I pull my stool nearer. I reach out for the bread, but the Sin Eater’s hand stops mine. She gives me, instead, the other egg.

I peel it badly, stripping the wobbly white along with the brown shell, until an irregular round remains, the pale yellow yolk peeking through on one side. I dip it shakily in salt and stuff it between my lips. My tongue burns with its touch, so I chew roughly with my side teeth, swallowing before it’s half mashed. I can feel the Sin Eater’s disapproval, but I eat it in just the one bite. Then wait, my hands shaking, ready for her to tell me what’s next.

She finishes her egg. She sits on the stool. She takes a breath. The moment seems like it will never end. Finally, her hand goes out for the bread. Thank the Maker, the bread! She rips it in two, then lifts the lid on the honey pot and drizzles half on my bread and half on hers, spreading it so thin that it coats it all without even dripping off.

My whole body shivers with the sweet, and I feel an itch inside both ears. I eat it like a dog eats meat, in great swallows, then wait, while she chews bite after tiny bite.

Think of your da, the little voice starts.

I will never have another hungry day! my belly screams. I will never spend another gnawing hour!

Next comes the leek, stringy and sharp. Finally the porridge, spoonful by spoonful. I scrape the bowl of every last oat. When I’m done, I sit back like her. She takes a breath and says, ‘The sins are now mine. I bear them in silence to my grave.’

She stays as still as a picture. I wait. Her hand rises and lands atop my leg with a slap, and then I know why we wait.