Behind me I hear boot steps. I move to the side, and a man of an age with me passes by. Not tall, but built broad and strong and wearing sleeves slashed to show burgundy silk. He’s dark-haired and dark-eyed and as handsome as you’ve seen.

He goes to the same corner the older Sin Eater disappeared beyond. Just as he turns, something small and bright bounces from his hand and onto the rushes on the floor, landing as silent as a shadow. A ring, gold like the one I wear for Da, but thick all around. I pick it up and follow after to return it

He hears my steps and looks back. I drop my eyes and raise the ring.

‘What’s this?!’ he says sharp-like, but doesn’t move to take it. Mayhap he’s discovered my S collar. Mayhap he’s afraid to touch the ring now that I’ve soiled it. I didn’t even think on it, I just picked it right up. But when I look up, his face is open like a sheet.

‘I must confess to you,’ he says. ‘A moment ago I wouldn’t have believed any folk in this castle honest enough to return a gold ring.’

I’d never steal, I think. Then I remember the bread. But that was because I had to, I remind myself, not because I’m dishonest. My face must show my thoughts knocking about, because he goes on.

‘I don’t mean to cause insult. It’s just I’m not from here. And since I’ve come I’ve not met two in twenty who wouldn’t sell their mother’s soul to Eve for their own advancement. The ring is a token from a friend back home.’

My hand goes to my own ring.

‘You have one too,’ he says in a sober way. ‘So you know.’ He waits as if it’s my turn to speak. If it were a week before this, I would tell him that I do know. I would tell him about my da. But why is he talking to me? He must see what I am.

I feel for my S collar. I find my shawl wrapped over the top of it. That’s why he’s still looking. When he discovers what I am, he’ll hate me. He’ll think I hid it from him. I drop my eyes.

‘What?’ he asks hard. ‘Even a maid won’t speak with a Northern lord, is it? This whole court is so puffed up none will deign to keep company with a country mouse raised by rustics. I’ve not a soul to speak to.’

There was an old rhyme about a country mouse and a town mouse, but all I can think on is what will happen if he finds out what I am.