I am her now – ten-year-old Lily, the pale girl with ringlets, confined to her bed, the one who sought desperately for answers about what she had seen and heard, and was told in no uncertain terms that it was a closed matter. That the things she had witnessed should be forgotten, cast aside to burn in the hearth.

'You were right, Mr. Carver,' I say. 'I did not come here to just bring you apples. When we were children, you came to my home. My mother warned me not to look upon you, but I did and whatever passed between us left me bedridden and sickening for days. What I saw then has never left me. And then, that day at Lutwyche Hall, I know you saw me. Oh, you can say that you did not, but I know it, just as I know that something awful happened to me – something that terrified my dear friend, Lizzie, and not much terrifies her, let me tell you. Then there are the things I have seen today...'

Whatever he sees in my expression, Mr, Carver sighs again, the whole act releasing a tension in his shoulders and he sinks into the chair almost as if his body moulds to it. How easily he seems to carry himself here. So utterly opposed to that stiff, awkward creature I saw at Mr. Hawkstone's ceremony.

'Very well,' he says. 'Ask.'

Ask, he says. But where to start?

'Am I cursed, Mr. Carver?'

He smiles then, just a small turn of his mouth, but it bothers me so that he would think my question amusing in some way.

'Are you so dewy-eyed, Miss Elmes that you believe everything your mother tells you?'

My skin instantly prickles. 'The Sin-Eater's curse is not a tale from my mother alone! There is not a townsperson alive who would look upon a Sin-Eater. They all believe in the curse.'

'Oh, well, in that case, if they all believe it, then it must be true.'

Mr. Carver grips the arms of the chair, scratching his fingertips at the worn fabric and I wonder how many times he has sat there, picking at the old chair. How long will it be before he pulls it apart completely?

'Allow me to let you in on a secret, Miss, and while I hate to disperse any rumours about my apparent powers, because it does afford me some notoriety, I am completely unable to bewitch anyone the way in which they say. I can no more curse you than I can curse a toad in a pond. They are afflicted, not by dark powers, but by shame. They are willing to pay scant for my services, but not willing to admit that they are involved in something their Church condemns. They call upon me, but then insist I hide myself away as if I do not exist. I am nothing more than their loathsome dark secret. If they do not look upon me, it is because they do not wish to see their own faces staring back. It is not I that curse the people, but their own guilt.'

I blink at his words, stunned. This cannot be true, can it? Mama seemed so sure of the curse. So utterly terrified of it. 'But I did look at you and afterwards...'

'Was most likely nothing but the guilt your family imposed upon you.' He shrugs. 'I cannot tell you for certain, Miss Elmes. Mayhap the passing of your grandfather had a true and profound effect upon you. The grief...'

'And are you suggesting that it was grief that afflicted me on the day of Mr. Hawkstone's ceremony too, because I can assure you that I felt no grief for that man!'

A fat droplet of water falls from one heavy curl and he wipes it away from his temple, rubbing his damp hand on his thigh. When he looks at me, I see a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.

'I cannot explain that either. Mayhap the experience of seeing me again conjured unhappy memories for you.' He pauses. 'It seems I have that effect on many. It comes with the job.'

I stare at him, confusion overwhelming me. Have I got this so very wrong? Can any of what he said actually be true? Papa always said that the mind can play such cruel tricks, but was it possible that all these years I had been afflicted by nothing but guilt and fable?

'Very well,' I say, although his answer has left me far from well. 'What about Mr. Hawkstone? You performed the ritual on him?'

'Aye, that I did.'

'Then his soul should be released, and he should be at peace. What was that in the woods?'

Mr. Carver looks as if he wants to choose his words carefully. 'Why, that was Mr. Hawkstone.'

I scowl. Why does he have to persist in being so infuriating?

'I am aware of that. But I am also aware that he died. I might not be a lady with much experience of this world, sir, but I do happen to know that when you die, your body does not suddenly awaken and allow you to terrorise young ladies out on a walk. What I saw was beyond all reckoning.'

My voice trembles as I think back to it. To his fat blackened tongue. His bulging eyes. My breath catches and all at once I feel weak and hate myself for it.

Mr. Carver leans forward, frowning. 'Are you well, Miss Elmes? Would you like me to fetch some water?'

I nod.

Standing abruptly, he points to the armchair. 'Sit.'

With that, he leaves the room and I do as he instructed, not because he instructed it, but because I am not sure my legs can withstand another second. The heat stifles me. Fumbling for the button on the back of my collar, I undo it, almost whimpering with relief as I pull my hair from neck where it has fallen and allow air to caress my skin. All at once, my throat feels at ease and I breathe, aware that when I do, I can detect his scent, strong and masculine, combined with the smell of the room – the wood crackling in the hearth, parchment and ink, the mustiness of the old armchair. In a strange way, I find it calms me and I close my eyes for a moment and focus on inhaling slow and deep.

A small sound forces me reluctantly to open my eyes. The soft creak of floorboard maybe.

I turn and find Mr. Carver standing in the doorway, a small cup of water in his hand and a strange look upon his face. There is that same uncertainty in his eyes as before, a hesitation in his features that I cannot fathom.

'Here,' he says gruffly, crossing closer to the chair and handing out the cup.

He has to fully stretch out his arm to reach me and I think then how odd and formal he suddenly looks. It is as if he seeks to keep his distance, but as I gratefully take the cup from his hand, his gaze flickers to my uncovered throat.

Oh. Perhaps Mr. Carver does not understand women as much as he cares to infer?

All at once a delicious thrill takes hold. It is wrong, I know, but with it comes a sense of empowerment and freedom that I rarely ever experience. Lizzie always says that the mere glimpse of an ankle bone can bring even the strongest of men to their knees and that makes women the most powerful of the two. I never understood that until now.

Daniel Carver is a proud, arrogant man who might not care for what others think of him, but he is not all powerful. Perhaps he is not even the Devil after all, for what Devil could possibly be rendered speechless by the sight of a woman's uncovered throat?

'Thank you,' I say, sipping at the water. The cup is cracked at the top, just a small fracture. I find it best to look at it, instead of at him, but I am aware of his presence. I am always aware of his presence.

He moves to the window, making some pretence of looking out into the woods.

'You only have one armchair,' I say, struggling to know what to say next.

'A man who welcomes no visitors is only in need of one armchair.'

I am lost at his words. What a lonely, quiet life he must lead out here. Sadness creeps into my chest, a heavy weight anchored to my heart.

'Why did the ritual not work, Mr. Carver?' I ask.

His head turns sharply and there is a sudden darkness in his eyes that unnerves me. 'I did not fail in my duty, Miss Elmes, if that is what you are implying?'

'Oh,' I say, shaking my head. Another curl tumbles loose. Blast. 'You misunderstand me, sir. I am not casting aspersions on your abilities...'

'No? What was it you said just now? Something about a Sin-Eater who couldn't keep the dead in the ground where they belong?'

Something in the way he glares infuriates me so. 'I am sorry, truly I am, but there has to be a reason...'

'Aye, you're right, but I am not it,' he says, slapping his palm over his chest. 'Think on this, Miss Elmes, there are many people in this world who do not call on the services of one such as me, either because they cannot afford it, don't believe in it or don't care. If Mr. Hawkstone's undead wanderings were due to a failure on my part, do you not think this world would be overrun with corpses rising from their graves? Nay, this is not my doing, you can be rest assured about that.'

Even I have to confess, he makes a very good point.

'Then, why?' I ask. 'How?'

Mr. Carver's body collapses into the wall, as if his very bones are exhausted. He rakes his fingers through his hair, where the damp curls are coiling tightly on his forehead.

'I do not know,' he replies, weary.

'You do not know?'

'That is what I said, aye,' he says. 'Look, Miss Elmes, I do not expect you to understand the work I do, but simply put, I consume a man's sin in order that he may find peace after death. I have no business with his earthly form. That is for the worms to deal with.'

I turn up my nose at the very thought of it. 'Did you uncle never experience such a thing as this or tell you of why it might occur?'

Mr. Carver's face darkens. 'My uncle told me nothing that did not come without a lashing of his belt or the force of his boot squarely up my behind. He was a cold, cruel man who could barely stomach my presence and was aghast that I was the sole heir of the family gift.'

I stare at him, myself aghast that he suffered so as a child. The thought of that boy growing up in such a barren, lifeless home made me look at this place with different eyes. I had always been granted the good fortune to reside in a home bursting at the seams with love and warmth, with a family that gave so much to each other. I couldn't bear to imagine how awful and empty his life must have been.

'I am sorry, Mr. Carver. I had no idea.'

He shakes his head, his lip curling into a sneer. 'Oh, spare me your pity, Miss Elmes, I need it not.' Whatever he reads in my expression, he sighs, his eyes softening but a fraction. 'Rest assured, my uncle gave no real answers to this mystery. Whatever has gone amiss here, I shall have to discover for myself.'

'I shall help you,' I blurt out, before I even realise what words spill from my mouth.

He arches a singular dark brow; his mouth dropping open. When the laughter comes, I am not expecting it and feel my cheeks flare instantly.

'I fail to see what is so amusing, sir,' I say, sitting up straighter, attempting to muster some dignity when I know I must look so terribly undignified with my unfastened collar and tumbling hair.

Mr. Carver rubs his palm over his mouth, his eyes still full of mirth. 'Nay, I don't suppose you do. You really are a quandary of contradictions, aren't you? You believe you are not to look upon me, and yet you do. You are not meant to enter a gentleman's home unchaperoned and yet here you are. You quake like a jelly in the presence of the unnatural and yet you offer to help me determine just why the unnatural exists.'

'Well, I'm glad my contradictory nature humours you,' I say, tersely. 'However, I think you will find I am far more than just an amusing contradiction.'

'Is that so?' he replies. The way in which he holds my gaze then heats my skin more than the fire in the hearth and I find myself parched again and wishing dearly that I had not drank all the water.

He stands upright and begins to push the hem of his tunic into the top of his breeches. My eyes are instantly drawn to his strong hips and I have to look away quickly, for fear he might see my brazen scrutiny and think me to be a woman without shame.

'Miss Elmes,' he says, with a gentler tone and I suspect, appears again to be choosing his words with much consideration. 'While I thank you for your generous offer of assistance, I will respectfully decline. None of this is of your concern. It is my business, and I must resolve to deal with it alone.'

'But my point is, that you do not have to deal with it alone. I can help you.'

'And what exactly is it that you will do?' he says, irritation clouding his face once more. How quickly his mood changes, or mayhap, how quickly I cause his mood to change. 'Bring more apples? Stomp all over my dinner?'

'Mr. Carver...' I begin to protest, but he stops me with one slap of his hand against the mantle. The force of the blow knocks the steel nib pen from the pot, and it falls to the floor, splashing spots of indigo ink onto the slate.

'I neither need your help nor desire it,' he says, raising his voice. 'I have been alone my whole life. What makes you think I cannot exist one moment longer on my own? I say it again, Miss Elmes, and I dearly hope you will listen, but this is not your concern.'

I purse my lips together and with hands I sincerely hope do not tremble, I move to hastily fasten my collar. Standing, I attempt to smooth out the creases in my skirt before fixing my gaze firmly on Mr. Carver.

'Whilst your independence is an applaudable trait, Mr. Carver, I think you are forgetting one vitally important detail in all of this.'

'And what might that be, Miss?'

'I have seen what lurks outside. Am I meant to just forget it? Cast it aside as if it were naught but a nightmare?'

'Aye, that is exactly what you must do.' He steps closer and all at once I feel the room has become smaller, as if he takes up too much space. I want to step back, but that would only cause me to fall back onto the chair like a frightened mouse seeking sanctuary. 'And I would ask that you not reveal to anyone what you have seen here today. I will deal with Mr. Hawkstone.'

'How do you expect to do that if you do not even know why he walks as if he is still alive?'

'I said, I will deal with it.' Mr. Carver's face sours but I cannot be dissuaded. This is wrong. It is all so very wrong.

'And what if your services are called upon in the meantime?' I say, imploring him to see sense. 'You cannot possibly intend to accept payment if the dead are refusing to remain at rest in their graves. That would be fraudulent, Mr. Carver!'

'It is one person,' he says. 'Just one. And I will have the matter resolved as soon as I am able. No one walks these woods, apart from Stella and she is quite safe here, I assure you.'

When yer hear them in the woods, it'll serve you well not to look.

Them. Stella had said them, not him. Not one person. Them. Plural. If Stella knows there is more than one dead-folk stalking these woods, then Daniel must know it too.

I look him in the eye. 'The townspeople need to know if there is danger here.'

Mr. Carver grabs a handful of his curls, clearly exasperated. 'I swear to you, there is no danger. The matter will be dealt with.'

'I should tell them. You should tell them.'

He reaches out and grabs my wrist, fingers curling around delicate bone. His grip is firm and strong and no matter how much I pull, I cannot release myself from his grasp.

'You don't understand, do you?' he says, his face darkening. 'You cannot breathe a word of this, do you hear me? If word gets out, I will lose everything. What good is a Sin-Eater if people believe he cannot lay the souls of those who have passed to rest? What good is he if the dead do not stay dead? My life will be over.'

'And yet what kind of life is it anyway? You are shunned by the townsfolk. You cannot even step foot in the villages, at best for being considered as invisible as a ghost, or at worst, being reviled and threatened by those who consider you to be the threat.'

He tugs me closer, and I brace my hand against his chest in an effort to resist his pull.

'It is my life, that is what it is!' he hisses at me. 'Who are you to tell me what life I have? You, who sits in her fancy house with her fancy family and friends. You, who's hardest decision of the day is what dress to wear. You, who, can go back to her life and worry not where the next meal might come from. Do you really think anything would change if I were not a Sin-eater? They would shun and revile and threaten me regardless, because this is who I am and that is who they are. No one will treat me any different, Lillian, if I no longer have my occupation. The only difference would be that I would no longer have a wage to at least keep my belly full.'

There is a lot I realise in that moment. I realise that he is so very angry that his whole body trembles with it. I realise that I am foolish and have misjudged his situation completely. I realise I know little of his life. I realise that his assessment of my life is sadly, not far off the mark.

And I realise that he said my name.

My actual name. And to hear him say it has rendered me speechless and instead of my heart quickening through fear of him, it has quickened because I love the way it sounds when he says it. I want him to say it again. I want him to pull me closer and whisper it into my ear. Against my throat. Against mouth before he crushes his upon mine.

I do not know whether he sees all of this in my expression, but his eyes widen slightly, and he releases me abruptly and backs away, rubbing at his hand as if he seeks to rid himself of the feel of me on his palm.

I am bruised and shrink into myself.

'Forgive me,' he says, his jaw tight as he looks into the hearth, still rubbing his hand. Am I really that much of a stain? 'I shall escort you back to the edge of town, Miss Elmes. It is time that returned for your liaison with your housemaid. Trust me that I shall see to all of this this. Concern yourself not with the dark goings-on in Rectory Wood. It is not your place.' He glances at me. 'I shall fetch you a mirror so that you can attempt to fix your hair before you return. I am sure it would simply not do for you to look so dishevelled.'

My hand instantly goes to the curls that have tumbled loose, which he spots and shakes his head, grimacing. Oh, how frivolous and vain he must think me.

As he walks past my side, I cannot help myself and reach out to touch his arm. He stops and stiffens, his whole body like the most exquisite marble.

'Please, Mr. Carver, let me help you.'

He is staring at my hand on his arm and a look of disgust passes across his face. When he speaks, his voice is bitter, a warning in his words that sends a chill over my prickled skin.

'As I said, Miss Elmes, it is not your place. We will talk no more of your misguided offers of assistance. Now let me fetch the mirror so I can be rid of you.'

He leaves the room and although the fire still burns in the hearth, and just moments ago I thought I would faint from the crushing heat, all of a sudden, I feel cold.

So cold that I am not sure I will ever feel anything again.