‘Disobeyed my da and ma,’ he wheezes on. ‘Failed to say my prayers. And I killed a man.’ The goodwife’s shoe scrapes again. ‘It was not with intention, only mischance. I . . .’ The whistle when he breathes gets louder. ‘I hit him just the two times. Never thought it’d do him.’ He wheezes hard now. ‘A man . . . shouldn’t be brought down . . . by just two blows . . . Like a woman, he was . . . Was never my fault.’

When he finishes, I go to the goodwife, her hands still clutched at her middle. I name the foods to prepare huskily. Gristle and roast pigeon. Pickled cucumber and mustard seed. Bitter greens. Pickled herring. Capon’s head for forcing oneself on a woman.

But the killing. I don’t know what kind of heart to eat. This is why folk are apprenticed to masters. But I’ve lost mine. All I know is the story of Mr Fox.

Clever Mary marries the rich Mr Fox. He tells his new bride she can go anywhere in his grand house, but she must never look in his cupboard. Of course one day, curiosity gets the better of her, and she opens the cupboard. Inside are the seven corpses of Mr Fox’s seven previous brides. Clever Mary hears Mr Fox behind her. He says now she must go into the cupboard, as well, to keep his secret, but she runs to town to tell what she found. Of course no folk believe her because Mr Fox is rich and respected. They drive Clever Mary back home to him. Mr Fox is waiting to kill her, but just as he’s pushing her into the cupboard, she breaks a rib bone off one of the corpses and stabs Mr Fox with it. At his Eating, seven pig hearts sit atop his coffin, and the whole town finally learns of his crimes.

But pig heart isn’t right. There are some sins so terrible they’re divided into different foods depending on how it happened. Like forcing oneself on a woman (capon’s head) is different from forcing oneself on a child (lamb’s head). Likewise, killing folk purposefully, which is a pig heart, is different from killing folk without intention. In my head I see the deer heart from Corliss’s Eating. What kind of killing was it for?

The goodwife’s waiting, so I name goat heart, since goats are a kinder sort of animal than pigs, and killing without intention is kinder than plain murder. The goodwife nods, and John Fletcher does nothing but wheeze. Mayhap they don’t know either.

Just as I’m leaving, a whisper slips from the goodwife’s lips. At first I think it must be thanks, but the words come out with different shapes. ‘He’ll go now,’ is what she says. She hands me two coins, looks at her husband and whispers it again. Like a prayer.