I turn to flee, but there’s too many folk coming in for me to move away. A man nearby starts yelling along with the Makerman, ‘Sin monger!’ Then, somefolk’s hat whips at my back, hard enough to bite. Another folk takes off his hat and hits me with it too. The cries of ‘Sin monger’ get louder than the ‘Peace to yous’ until they’re all I can hear. It seems everyfolk is yelling and hitting, shoving and herding me back from the door. I can’t see through the bodies and hats striking me, but suddenly I lose my footing, and I’m tumbling along with a young girl down into the ditch beside the road. The girl’s mother screams and pulls the girl up by the arm, swatting her across the bottom for shame and hugging her for comfort all at the same time. I wait in the ditch with my hands covering my head until I’m sure no folk are still striking me.

The crowd has gone quiet. I look up at the line of folk outside the Makerhall. They have turned away, shading their faces with their hands. None cry ‘Sin monger’ any more. A moment passes. I start to hear quiet ‘Peace to yous’ up by the door again. The queue begins to move. The folk file into the Makerhall until the road above me is empty.

Dirty water’s soaking up into my shift. I feel it cold across my left thigh and bottom. What I think is, I’ve no soap at Ruth’s house.

The other thoughts of guilt and regret and grief are there too, but for some reason it’s the soap that sticks. I swallow a little giggle. Soap.

I climb out of the ditch. I can hear the High Makerman starting the service inside. ‘O Maker, have mercy upon us miserable sinners.’

My lips move without thinking, along with the response, ‘May it be.’

I always loved saying ‘May it be’ at the end of each prayer. Hearing everyfolk uttering my name, May, like I was part of the Maker’s prayers and mysteries.

Outside the door, I look at the statue of Hagi Gabriel. His face is kinder than Hagi Saul’s, and his hands open at his sides in welcome. But there’s nothing welcoming here.

The High Makerman goes on. ‘Dear brethren, we assemble to give thanks for the great benefits we receive at the Maker’s hands.’ What benefits have I received? I can’t think of a one.

Every folk answers again, but this time, like Hagi Gabriel, I’m quiet.

The graveyard has lots of markers, some worn down, some with edges still square. One marker has a picture scratched on its back in white chalk: an x with eyes on either side. Witch’s markings, most like.