It’s like a picture of a person. Not a real picture, but a likeness made up of what’s inside. There’s a copper band as is worn on the finger to signify marriage. There’s two bone pendants of the kind mothers give babies to protect against Eve’s eye, even though Makermen say it’s heathen. The leather strings are unworn. Babes that didn’t last. There’s a kerchief made of fine linen with two embroidered letters I don’t know. There’s a book bound in calfskin, mayhap for prayers. The prayer book brings a different picture to my mind: a dungeon, Black Fingers at the Sin Eater’s side, holding up a stone to crush a confession out of her.

I never even learned her name.

Quick-like, I replace her things, for they must be hers. I shove the box back at the foot of the mattress. But then Paul’s voice comes up the ladder. He’s returned. It gives me a notion.

Box in hand, I climb down the ladder, careful not to strain at my stitches. Brida eyes me from the side like I’m an unbroken horse who’s bolted. I place the box by the hearth and hold up the Sin Eater’s kerchief.

Paul looks away, but Brida half peeks.

I point to the embroidered letters.

‘I don’t know what she wants,’ Brida tells Paul.

I want so much to speak, a huff comes out of my lips.

Instantly Paul turns away and urgently recites the Maker’s Prayer. I clamp my lips closed, but he goes on. I place my hand over my mouth.

‘Paul,’ Brida prompts above his prayer. ‘She won’t speak.’

Paul stops short. ‘I want nothing to do with her.’

I wish I didn’t need his help, but there’s no folk else. I hold up the kerchief again and point.

‘She’s just indicating the letters,’ Brida says.

Paul lets his eyes graze over the cloth, ‘R. G.’

And now I know the letters of her names. R for her given name. G for her family.

‘Wasn’t so hard now, was it?’ Brida scolds.

‘What would you know, you nasty corpse?’ Paul barks at her. ‘The indignities I bear! Travelling only in the night, blenching from constables’ lanterns, supping on other folk’s discarded filth, and closeting myself in a squalid little shack with this pollution!’ He waves towards me.

‘We could return to the sheepfold,’ Brida offers as if she’s accustomed to such rudeness.

Paul begins to wrap his face as if he means to leave again. Which is just fine by me. He may have saved my life stitching up my neck, but he’s tempered like a goose. As he dresses, he catches sight of the book in the Sin Eater’s box. He gives a short laugh.

‘What is it?’ asks Brida.