Finally Frederick mutters, ‘If the book’s verse hastens her retreat, then I yield.’ He reaches out to take the book, careful to keep from touching me. He clears his throat. ‘A Compendium of Diverse Sins Both Large and Small and Their According Foods.’ He takes a breath. ‘“In which it is set forth the foodstuffs accorded each sin and by which means the sin eater may verily cleanse the sins from the soul.”’

‘A tale of intrigue and feeling,’ Paul says like he doesn’t mean it at all, settling his back against the wall by the hearth. And so we begin.

Frederick reads from the beginning of the book. It’s just a list of all the sins and their foods. Adultery, assault, arrogance, and many more, but no deer heart. I guess it will be under the sin of killing, but I don’t know where killing comes in the book. I keep waiting, hoping it will be next.

What Frederick reads is still useful. I knew before that adultery is dried raisins and bearing a grudge is porridge, but bigamy is orange marmalade and blinding folk is pork pie. Hippocras, I knew, was for drunkenness, but it’s also for blood sacrifice. And there’s six kinds of coveting, and they’re all different creams: plain cream, clotted cream, curdled cream, posset, butter eggs with cream, and whipped cream.

Frederick’s only a short way through the book when he yawns and rubs at his eyes. ‘Regretfully, I must suspend this edifying labour for the evening and rest my eyes.’ He holds out the book. ‘I have surely more than met this creature’s demand.’ I take the book from Frederick and try to ignore how his hand jerks back at my nearness. I’ll have him do more another night.

I’m woken before dawn by yelling outside the house. Sleep drunk, I first think somefolk’s come again to do me harm. But then the sounds shift into two men fighting. I think it’s Paul or Frederick, but the fighting men’s words are too rough, like clods of earth.

‘Got nought against her,’ says one.

‘Old bitch,’ says the other. Mayhap one is a woman, but with such a low and gravelly voice as to be taken for a man. I peek out of the shutters. A constable and an old body.

‘Saw you drawing a devil’s sign on a house,’ says the constable.

‘Was nought but scribbling!’ The old body is tied at the waist. She does her best to hobble away from the constable, but she’s so ancient, the constable doesn’t even need to run after her. He catches the rope and drags her on towards town.

‘Burn you like the devil fugger you are,’ he says.

‘Haven’t done nothing!’ shrieks the woman.

They turn a corner, and the house sinks into quiet for a moment. Then low voices come up the ladder.