‘A swallow before you go? My mouth burns so,’ Corliss says.

The Willow Tree fills a cup and pours a few drops into her mouth. Then he and the Painted Pig leave for the outer sitting room.

Corliss looks the Sin Eater in the eyes. ‘I’m ready.’

The older Sin Eater searches for a stool but there’s only a wooden bench by the wall. She nods at me, which I guess means go and fetch it. The bench is heavy built, so I drag it. It makes an awful scraping noise and takes half the rushes on the floor along with it. The Sin Eater gives me a hard look, but Corliss seems not to have noticed. The Sin Eater says the words to begin.

‘Maker forgive me,’ Corliss starts. ‘I have many a sin. I am vain; not as charitable as I should be.’ She waits, and I think from the way her eyes move that she’s in pain. Bad pain. ‘Lying. Envy.’ She suddenly pitches to the side, retching. The Sin Eater passes a bowl in time to catch the puke. I pick up a cloth and wipe Corliss’s lips.

‘Thank you,’ Corliss says to me like she means it.

The Sin Eater names the foods she’ll eat for the recited sins, then waits.

Corliss takes a ragged breath and swallows, ‘I should get on with it. Nothing to gain by hiding. I’ve, oh. I’ve used my favour with the Queen for gain. Took money from folk who had too little to spare and promised them the Queen’s ear.’ Corliss breathes like the air’s heavy. ‘The Queen ever had her own mind. I wasn’t like to sway it.’ She takes another breath and says softly, ‘But that’s not what I said to those who came to me.’

‘Roast peacock,’ the Sin Eater answers.

Corliss looks as though she’ll puke again, so I lift up the bowl, but all that comes out is a little choke and a sick-sweet smell. Her lips’ve turned a bluish colour, and something niggles in my mind. I try to catch the thought, but it flits away, too quick to grasp. Corliss lies back with a sigh. ‘I fornicated with a man. He was a wolf. A wolf with women. I knew better. And he was married.’ Her eyes close. ‘But we shared . . . an ambition.’

‘Dried raisins,’ says the Sin Eater.

Corliss’s eyes go from the Sin Eater’s to mine. ‘I cast horoscopes and other auguries.’

‘Pomegranate,’ the Sin Eater says.

My breath pulls in. Pomegranate is for witchcraft.

Corliss seems taken aback as well. ‘But horoscopes are white magic.’

‘Trying to know the Maker’s plan is spell casting. Spell casting is pomegranate,’ is all the Sin Eater says.