She leads me up the stairs to a family bedroom above the alehouse where Milly, also fat, lies abed, her belly swollen with child. There’s a toddler asleep at her side and an older child whose eyes match hers holding a mug of small beer at the ready. This isn’t her first time reciting before childbirth.

‘How’s it down there?’ asks Milly.

‘Folk drink just fine without you,’ says her sister.

‘You tell Carter Parris he owes me for three pints. Don’t you let him run any stories at you.’ Milly waves at the child for the small beer and takes a drink.

‘Carter Parris isn’t going to run any stories at me,’ the sister answers.

‘Bring us a light, would you? Dark as Eve’s heart in here,’ complains Milly.

The sister nods at the child, who finds a rush candle and lights it from the hearth fire. Milly peers over at me. ‘A new sin eater.’

‘The Unseen is now seen,’ I say. ‘The Unheard is now heard. The sins of your flesh become the sins of mine to be borne to my grave in silence.’

Milly’s eyes go to the ceiling. ‘There’s scolding, vanity, not saying my prayers as I ought, putting money before goodliness, more scolding. Fanny, what all have I done?’

The sister puffs out her lips. ‘Quarrelling, miserliness. You smacked Carter Parris a good many times.’

‘Miserliness? I never!’ cries Milly. ‘I watch my pennies. That’s good sense’s all.’

‘You’re the one asked,’ says the sister, Fanny.

‘Wait till you’re doing the reciting: ill-temper, churlishness, scolding . . .’

‘That’s all the same sin!’

‘Being moody all the time,’ adds Milly.

‘You just said that,’ says Fanny.

‘Being a sourpuss,’ adds Milly.

‘I’m leaving,’ Fanny announces. She looks at the older child. ‘Call me up when your mother’s too pained to talk.’ She disappears down the stairs.

‘Don’t let Carter Parris drink!’ Milly yells after her. She looks in my direction. ‘Let’s be done then.’

‘When the food is et, your sins will be mine,’ I say. ‘I will bear them in silence to my grave.’

The next Recitation is for Goodwife Twarby. The second frog poker follows me close by. When I near the merchants’ row, he comes to my elbow and guides me not to the front of the houses, but around the back. We go down a little lane and then through a garden gate past pretty boxes of spring flowers.

A maid lets us in the garden door. She nods her head up the stairs just as a moan comes down it. I’ve become accustomed enough to steps that I barely even need to hold the wall as I climb.

On the second storey, another maid waits outside a shut bedchamber with a brass ewer. ‘Madam?’ she calls through the door. ‘I brought cool water for you.’

A voice comes back, ‘Leave it outside.’