‘You will protect her with a spell?’ The dying man winces and farts again. ‘The scryer promised me protection as well. He gave me a parchment with strange symbols upon it.’ He reaches shakily into his robe and removes a folded paper.

The Willow Tree opens it and brings it near his face. ‘These symbols are part of the language given to Adam by the angels. The language that spawned Hebrew and Greek. The symbols are imbued with divine power. If they have not protected you, it is you who are at fault, an unworthy vessel. Have you undertaken unworthy acts?’ the Willow Tree asks. ‘Did you pursue alchemy for gold?’

‘Gold is a physical manifestation of the Maker’s purity, a noble metal,’ says the dying man.

‘Again, you interpret what you desire, not what the ancients wrote. Did you offer a tribute to the Maker? Gold, perhaps?’ says the Willow Tree like he knows the dying man’s thoughts. ‘A tribute must be of a kind. If you wish for life, you must offer life.’

The dying man startles. ‘Your arms could be torn off, and worse, for uttering such witchcraft.’

‘Your arms could be torn off, and worse, for trying to make gold,’ the Willow Tree says back. ‘My practice is rooted in mathematics, astrology, and the study of philosophers. It is an ancient art, and its mysteries have served the greatest kings and queens. It is categorically different from dark arts performed by ignorant women.’

The dying man says quietly, ‘It is now you who interprets what you desire.’

The Willow Tree turns to leave. There’s a flicker of gold at his chest like a fat slice of pie with a symbol in the centre. The symbol’s the same one Mush Face was looking at in her book the day I went to Tilly Howe’s Recitation.

‘Am I to die today?’ the dying man calls out.

The Willow Tree doesn’t stop. ‘We are all called to the Maker.’

‘Have you nothing that might prolong my life?’ says the man.

The Willow Tree sees me through the crack of the door. ‘Perhaps it is time to think on your afterlife, sir.’

Up close, I see the dying man is sorely frightened to die. I feel sorry for him, so I say the words to begin kindly.

He’s ready with his sins. ‘Putting learning before the Maker, putting profit before the Maker, making a birth chart, the use of symbols to increase wealth and protect against ill.’ His hand still clutches the parchment with the symbols on it.

I nod to the paper.

He looks at me sharp, then softens like an egg tart. ‘Yes. Yes. Idolatry.’ He goes on. ‘And the common sins. Arrogance, parsimony, envy, greed. Tell me’ – his eyes search mine – ’have you ever spoken with an angel? Is it the archangel Michael who shall balance my soul against a dove’s feather?’