‘Everyfolk’s on the hunt for witches because of that poppet,’ whispers Frederick.

‘Could have been me,’ I hear Brida’s little voice.

‘She was making the marks,’ Paul says. ‘Should know better than to get caught.’

Brida speaks again softly, ‘Could have been me.’

12. HUMBLE PIE

IN THE MORNING when I climb down the ladder, my squatters are asleep. The house smells of farts and Brida’s rot. The broken doorframe’s been hastily repaired. The ewer is filled with water, and they’ve piled more wood near the hearth. I best get used to the noise and funk. They hope to stay.

Outside I find a sky threatening rain and three messengers. Two are using sticks to poke at a frog half-eaten by some night-time fiend. The other is picking his nose with spirit. The nose picker sees me first. ‘Eating for Tilly Howe at the castle.’

The frog pokers are next. ‘Milly Beane’s labouring with child in Northside tavern row.’

‘I got a Recitation for a lady in child labour too,’ says the second frog poker. ‘Goodwife Twarby. There’s a witch’s mark on the door.’

It takes me a moment to hear the last bit. I turn to my door, but there’s nothing to be seen. The second frog poker uses his stick to lead my eyes to the lower corner down by the ground. It’s a small marking in charcoal that nearly disappears into the weathered wood. The marking has two eyes on either side of a shape that looks like a woman’s skirt. Keen sight, that second frog poker.

I squat and try to rub the marking out with my fingers. All I get is a splinter.

Why is my door marked? The thought drives me to a shiver. Everyfolk knows a witch’s mark’s a curse.

The rain holds off as I walk to the first Recitation. It’s not that I’m putting off going to the castle, I tell the road before it can say anything. I’ve promised I’ll sort this all out, and I’ll keep my word. It’s just the dead have time the dying don’t, I tell it. So Recitations come first.

The first frog poker leads me to an alehouse in Northside.

‘Well, that took a fugging long time,’ says a fat woman in an apron to the first frog poker. ‘The babe could’ve been born, raised, and shrived in the time it took you. Fortunate my sister is a slow birther. Don’t be expecting a penny from me.’ The frog poker cries out an excuse, but the woman waves him off.