‘Come for your girl who wants the calf liver, is what,’ whispers Pimples. ‘She’s on with a certain man the Queen fancies. Queen had his wife pushed down a stair. Your girl’s going to need the sin eater soon enough.’ The first maid crosses herself.

At that moment the Painted Pig arrives noisily in the corridor. Pimples and the other maid press themselves against the wall. Pimples bumps a small tapestry with her bottom.

The Painted Pig’s eyes work over the maids like they’re meat that’s turned at a market. ‘Do you know where my maid is? She was meant to bring my correspondence last evening. I’m expecting a letter from my cousin.’

The two maids shake their heads.

The Painted Pig sees the tapestry behind Pimples askew. She tilts her head. ‘That weaving is worth a goodly amount more than you. If I were the Queen, I should have your bottom sliced off for touching it.’

Pimples, flushing nape to brow, pulls away from the hanging, grazing the Painted Pig’s silk skirt with her soiled apron as she does. ‘Fat cow,’ the Painted Pig snaps, and walks past the cringing maids.

I wait till she’s about to pass me to stand up sharp. The Painted Pig pulls back like a donkey. Her hand reaches for her waist as if she were wearing old faith prayer beads, but none are there. She crosses herself instead and goes on.

I don’t know why I did it, but it feels good to have folk mind me, even if it’s a fearful sort of minding. It makes for a change.

Once the rain lets up, I go out of the scroll door and cross the courtyard. A gaggle of messenger boys plays marbles just outside the castle gate. The game knocks off when they see me, and they call out a whole list of names. But I just walk on towards home. The taste of the second deer heart is still on my breath, and I’ve remembered one thing that still might help with my muddle.

My door creaks threateningly in its poorly repaired frame. Inside my house, Paul, Brida, and Frederick are just waking. I find the Sin Eater’s book and go to the foot of Frederick’s stretching body.

‘Why, she’s in a fluster, now,’ announces Brida, pushing herself up with her one good arm.

‘And must we wait upon her fluster?’ asks Frederick, unwilling to look my way.

Brida just says again, ‘She’s in a fluster.’

‘Then we’ll play at pantomimes to guess,’ Paul mutters from under a cloak he’s using as bedclothes.

‘Tell her to leave us in peace,’ Frederick directs Brida. I throw the book onto Frederick’s chest. ‘Oh-ho! Beware, we have been trained in broadsword and epée,’ Frederick warns. ‘At least the simulacrum.’