‘A Compendium of Diverse Sins Both Large and Small and Their According Foods,’ Paul reads the words pressed into the book’s cover. ‘But our young sin eater hasn’t her letters. What a comedy!’ A few moments later the door slams shut behind him. Good riddance.

Back in the loft the old ticking pokes at my hips as I crawl onto the mattress. Her mattress. R . . . Rose? I let my body soften into the packed places where her big body once rested. Rebecca? I find the dip where her head used to lie. Ruth? Ruth, a solid name.

And the name of the folk she comes from? Glover? Granger? Garrington? I try all the names I know, but none seems right. My eyes go to her box. I still haven’t found a way to help her. It keeps me shifting and turning for hours in the nest of her imprint.

8. PIGEON PIE

IT’S STILL DARK when I’m woken from my fitful sleep by a rapping sound. Somefolk at the door, I think, then sink back into sleep. I dream I’m at home, my true home, and my mother’s making fine cakes for Makersday dinner. She keeps knocking the wooden spoon against the bowl. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Then I’m awake again, the rapping at the door coming harder.

Out of the shutter, I see a pale, little messenger boy, a long woollen nightcap atop his head, calling me to a Recitation that can’t wait till morning. I grab my shawl and crawl down the ladder. Brida and Paul are both gone, and the hearth is cold.

‘A Recitation for Tilly Howe,’ the boy tells me. ‘Tilly Howe at the castle.’

The castle. I don’t want to go back. Black Fingers is there.

But the castle is where the Sin Eater is too. Ruth, I christened her last night.

You must go, says the still-dark sky. My throat tightens, and my stitches burn.

It’s your duty to obey, say the stones on the road.

Their voices grow as loud as the messenger’s and finally there’s nought to do but go.

By the time I reach the castle gate, morning’s come and the roads have filled up even though it’s Makersday and folk are meant to rest.

Once inside the gate, I follow the messenger to the scroll door. The scroll door again. The castle is a large place with all sorts of rooms and all sorts of folk, so it gives me a cold feeling along the back of my neck to have returned to the same door.

I’m terrified of coming upon Black Fingers. As long as I’m not alone he can’t harm me, I think, stepping quicker after the messenger ahead. And as long as I stay silent, I’ll be safe.