And then I grasp it all at once. She was a sin eater too, this girl in the wax portrait. It’s her box. Each box is from a different sin eater. It’s their belongings. There’s no folk to pass them on to when they die, so their leftovers stay here. I look again at how many boxes there are. They must go back so many years. Leading up to now. To me.

So many women slept in this loft. Mayhap on this same mattress. I curl back onto it, sniffing the ticking as if I might smell them in it. All I smell is old hay and mildew, but it sort of warms me, knowing there were others before me, even if they’re not here now. It makes me feel like an us again.

As I fall into sleep, I wonder if any of them would know what to do with my muddle of poisonings and deer hearts.

14. CROW’S MEAT WITH PLUM

MERCHANTS’ HOMES, I’VE come to find, are best on a cold day. Lattice windows, oak panelling, and hangings on the walls are all meant to fight the cold and damp. But when the day is warm and dying being done within, a wealthy home gets foul. I hate to think what Recitations might be like in high summer.

I’m let in by the maid, who steps aside for me to find my own way. By now I know to follow my nose to the burning herbs. But today there’s a different smell. Old eggs.

Through a crack in the bedchamber door I see two old bodies, one abed, wrapped in rugs. He must be the one awaiting the Recitation. The other old body, I’m surprised to see, is the gnarled Willow Tree, the Queen’s physician. He’s bent over the bed looking at something. Between the men is a parchment with circles and figures. I don’t know whether to wait or go in, so I wait.

‘An enema of Aurum potabile?’ I hear the Willow Tree say.

‘I never saw the need,’ the dying man says back. ‘My birth chart foretold longevity, robust health, and wealth.’

‘Told by a rogue crystal gazer.’

‘A scryer,’ the dying man agrees. ‘Came round two years ago in winter, offered to cast this birth chart.’ The dying man farts. A moment later the smell of eggs comes strong through the door crack. ‘The rogue claimed to have foretold the Virgin Queen. I believed him,’ says the man.

‘Don’t we all when the stars augur what we wish to hear,’ the Willow Tree says. ‘But a virgin queen was foretold by many, ancients too.’

‘A virgin queen who will usher in a lasting era of peace through the new faith.’ The dying man nods. He looks up. ‘Have you found the witch who made the poppet?’

‘Do not fear, the Queen shall be protected,’ answers the Willow Tree.