The mirror in the hallway is draped in black veil.

The fabric is expensive. Hand-embroidered with an intricate Point de Flandre border. Mama had been particularly fond of it, and often lamented that it was funeral lace because she felt it too pretty for death.

I lean forward and inhale, hoping that I can smell her fragrance about the delicate fabric, but all I can smell is the laurel wreath on the open door and the pungent scent of cloves drifting through from the parlour room.

The parlour room where Mama now lies.

I have not yet dared to enter. One should not witness such fear on the faces of your most beloved, and I think mayhap I have seen enough fear on Mama's face to haunt me in this world and the next. I do not wish to see that fear again. Marie told me, with much squeezing of my hand and through a flood of tears that yet eludes me, that Mama simply looks at rest, but I am certain if I study her face too long, I will still see some residue of the fear she felt in that moment.

As unconsciousness had swept me into oblivion, I know not what Mama suffered, only that death had not come for her so mercifully quick. Awakened by the heavens beating a downpour against my face, I found the horses had finally come to halt, stamping their hooves in the sodden earth, steam still pluming from their nostrils and rising from their sleek black flanks. Stumbling from the trap, I had run the length of the lane until I reached that fateful bend in the road, desperately searching for any sign of Mama. At first, she appeared nowhere to be seen, until I saw her Gainsborough bonnet in the mud, the lush green ribbon and flower of which Mama had been so fond, now looking as black as the felt.

Stumbling and sliding into the roadside ditch, I had landed at Mama's feet where the water pooled, immersing one almost completely so I could only see the tip of her boot. The other twisted at an unnatural angle. I had called her name over and over. Shook her lifeless body in the hope that I could rouse her from her sleep. Laid my head against her chest, desperate to hear her heart beat once more.

It was only when the moonlight broke through the blackened storm clouds that I saw the claw marks in the wall of the ditch and Mama's stricken face, her eyes wide open, fear dragging on her delicate features.

To know that Mama had attempted to claw her broken body out of the ditch pained my heart until I thought my chest would burst from the agony. How useless was I in that moment? Rendered immobile from a simple knock to the head and all the while Mama had fought and scraped to save herself. If only I had remained awake to help her. If only I had stopped her fall.

If only I had not gone to Lutwyche that day.

If only I had not discarded everything I had ever known, in search for desire and love.

If only I had never set eyes upon Daniel Carver.

And yet, adrift in my sea of regret and guilt, I want him now. I want him to wrap his strong arms about my frame and hold me tight to his chest. I want the comfort of his embrace. The rightness of it. The feeling that everything will be okay because he says it will.

I want all the things I know I cannot have. Should not have.

I think, mayhap, I have just what I deserve. Death. Mourning. A grief that seeks to rip me into two halves.

Through the veil, I can see a distorted version of myself. Or maybe it is a truer depiction than any looking glass has ever shown me before. My body cloaked in funeral black. My face locked behind dark lace.

The door opens and in walk Mr. and Mrs. Chatham, their daughter Violet trailing close to her mother's skirts. Her tiny hand curls into the folds of the fabric, as she seeks to hide her face in the pleated velvet. It reminds me of a time, many years ago, when the black veils covered the mirrors just like today and I gripped Mama's hand so very tightly.

Mama, I whisper and tighten my grip on her hand.

Pain tears when I realise, I will never hold Mama's hand ever again.

I accept Mr. and Mrs. Chatham's brief offers of sympathy with a nod and numbness, as I have accepted the same from every mourner who has entered here today. The house is crowded with them. Grim faced ghouls who come to stare and pretend. For what is their grief compared to ours? They will go about their lives after today and we will not. We will grieve and mourn and tear ourselves into pieces, feeling the loss of her so very keenly. And I will drown in guilt and shame.

'Will we go in now?'

I glance to my right. William is sat halfway up the staircase, his knees pulled in tight, his arms wrapped around them, looking much younger than his years. He has often been found to sit in this exact place, in this exact position. Usually, it affords him the best spot to eavesdrop on parlour room conversations, but there is no eavesdropping to be had today, for the parlour room holds nothing but a graveyard silence that creeps out into the hallway like fog from the mouth of the Mynd.

I nod again, unable to find any words.

Descending the staircase, William reaches for my hand and his feels warm against my own. I have not felt warm since Mama's death. I think mayhap I will never feel warm again.

Together we enter the parlour room, where the clocks have been stilled and the black veils reign.

Papa stands at the coffin-side, pale and gaunt of face. He has always been a robust, mountain of a man, yet today, he looks smaller, weaker. He is a shadow of his former self. His dullened eyes avoid my gaze, but I see that he too struggles to look upon Mama. Instead, his hand grips the side of the box, fingertips engulfed in swathes of black satin.

The usual ghouls are present today. Mr. Darbourough and his long-suffering wife, Mabel, a woman who looks more mouse than human. Dr. Benedict, our childhood nemesis. In the corner, seated in Grand-Mama Rampton's chair of all places, is old Mrs Hawkstone, draped so heavily in layers of black that it is a wonder she can sit upright. Her hand curls around the top of her stick, her long fingernail tapping at the carved ivory. Flanking her on either side of the chair is her daughter-in-law, Mrs Beatrice Hawkstone, a handsome, but somewhat distant-looking woman, and Captain Andrew Hawkstone, looking sombre, although his eyes are warm when they meet mine.

Strangely, the one person I expect to look my way is the one who does not.

In fact, Lizzie, who stands close to the captain, stares at her feet, her hands clasped in front of her. On anyone else it would seem demure, but that is of course, very unlike the Lizzie I know, and I can clearly see how her knuckles protrude from her vice-like grip, and how her body looks as fragile as the ice on Soudley Pond in wintertime.

If it were any other day, I might think on it some more, but I have no doubt that Lizzie is still steeped in guilt for her part in Mama's plot to ambush me at Lutwyche Hall. How I hate to think of that now. I do not want to think on it. Of how our last moments together were filled with anger and disappointment and shame. Of how I came to understand my mother mayhap more than I ever had, only to lose her to darkness in a cruel twist of fate.

William tugs gently on my hand, and in a daze, I shuffle with him to the corner of the parlour, desperate to not be too close to the coffin so that I do not have to catch a glimpse of Mama's face. The scent of cloves is overpowering, and the open window does nothing to dispel it, as if the wind outside seeks to push the stench of death and grief back into the house and hold it prisoner here. A torture I deserve, I think.

Closing my eyes, I lean against William's shoulder, until I hear a faint murmuring among the mourners. Whispers whip up a storm in the parlour room and then we are plunged into a silence so deep and thick of ominous undertones that I cannot help but open my eyes in fear of what it means.

How did I not know what it would mean?

How did I not think this would come to pass?

Dragged down into a wave of dark memories, I am a girl again, standing in this exact same spot, except it is Mama's hand I hold and not William's. The man stands in the doorway, his face ruddy from the cold and from behind him, I spy the boy, trembling in his threadbare coat, his eyes dark and wide. He clutches a small, tatty Bible to his chest, and his curls that have not known a brush for a long-time tumble about his face.

How like that boy Daniel looks now.

I think he has brought the cold in with him, for the temperature in the room has dropped considerably or mayhap it is the reaction of the mourners that frosts the air. I taste a tang of bitterness on my tongue. Something stirs in the buried recesses of my mind.

Tendrils of black smoke rising from between Grand-Papa's lips. The Sin-Eater leaning over his body, his own mouth opening, ready to consume Grand-Papa's sins.

This is what Daniel has come here to do.

I watch, frozen, as he slowly crosses the room, his strange gait dragging much like the lagging hand inside the clock in his house. Hesitating at the foot of the coffin, he glances at me, and I know I should look away, but I cannot. I cannot.

Not a soul looks upon him now except for me. Our eyes meet.

I silently I beg him not to, even though I know he must. He must for Mama's sake, and yet I cannot bear the thought of watching him do it. I cannot stand to know what horror must pass between them. Daniel waits, his eyes pleading, and I can do nothing but nod, the tears now – finally – falling down my face. He wants me to look away. He can no more do this with me watching, than I can bear to witness, and I love him for it. With his Bible clutched to his chest, Daniel focuses on Mama, his face fixed with concentration. As he starts to lean down, I close my eyes.

'Stop this at once!'

The room swells with anxious murmurs, and I look up to find Rector Williams standing in the doorway of the parlour, his face spotted red with fury, his eyes mad and blazing. Two gentlemen crowd into the space behind him, both of which I neither recognise nor have seen before this day.

'Foul beast of a man!' The Rector can barely spit out the words, his fury rages so. 'You will not touch that dear woman again! Mark my words you will not!'

I stare wide-eyed at Daniel, who looks as afraid as I, his shoulders hunching instinctively – that strange thing he does when he seems to shrink in on himself, as if he wishes not to be seen. Behind him, mourners have begun to inch away, some making the sign of the cross as they do so, until he stands with just Papa at his side. Papa, himself, who still clings to the coffin edge as if he cannot bear to let go, rocks back on his heels, his face transforming from lost despair to dazed shock in seconds.

'Rector... what is the meaning of this?' he says, somehow finding the strength to speak. 'You surely know we are in mourning here.' His gaze flickers warily over the men behind the Rector and I see fear there, the same trepidation I saw on his face the day we visited Lutwyche Hall for Mr. Hawkstone's death ritual. Papa does not know these men either, but he fears them, or at least is suspicious of who they might be. 'Whatever business you have, I ask that you return when my dear wife is laid to rest at last.'

The Rector possesses the decency to look somewhat ashamed as he addresses my father. Taking a small step into the room, he clears his throat, the redness in his cheeks fading slightly.

'My sincerest apologies to you, Mr. Elmes. I seek not to cause you or your family any more distress, but I am here on behalf of the Church and must do my duty. Constables Cooper and Wright are here to take this man into custody.'

'Custody!' I exclaim, my whole body jolting in shock. 'On what charge?'

Papa holds up his hand to calm me. 'Lillian, dear...'

'No!' I retort. My heart beats in panicked fury. 'You cannot do this, Rector! How dare you think you can come here today of all days, at this exact moment. Our Mama is lost to us. You will leave our house this instant.'

'Lily,' hisses William, tugging on my hand.

Rector Williams puffs out his chest, his cheeks flushing again. 'I am afraid that is something I cannot do, Miss Elmes. Not without Mr. Carver.'

I stare wildly from him to Daniel, who stares back at me, panic engulfing him.

'Excuse my daughter, Rector,' Papa says. 'As you can imagine, we are a family tortured by our grief and her outburst is understandable...'

'Outburst indeed! Papa!'

Papa stills me with a glare, but I can see he is struggling to contain himself too. 'I repeat the question which did Lillian ask: on what charge do you seek to detain Mr. Carver?'

The Rector swallows. 'Heresy, witchcraft... and murder.'

Murder!

The room erupts in shock.

'Preposterous!' I say, pulling free from William's grasp, and removing my veil as I step forward. 'Mr. Carver is no more capable of murder than you or I. His occupation is not evidence of murderous intent. And you, Rector, to come here and talk of heresy as if you are not fully aware of and complicit in our customs! This is nothing but blind prejudice and hypocrisy!'

Rector Williams – a man not used to challenge, particularly not from a woman – almost growls in consternation. 'Do not dare to call my character into question, Miss Elmes. Not when you would defend the very beast that did murder your own mother!'

Gasps reverberate around the room. Papa turns as if in a stupor, his confused gaze finding Daniel who is shaking his head, silently mouthing no over and over.

The shock of the Rector's words slams into my body and even my bones seem to tremble with the impact.

'P-Pardon? Rector, you are quite mistaken. Are you forgetting I was there? The horses bolted is all.' My voice cracks to relive it. 'It was a terrible, awful accident. Mr. Carver was not present, I can assure you of that.'

'Rector Williams, you will explain yourself immediately,' Papa says, his voice thin and cold.

'Richard, you know me,' the Rector implores him. 'I would not come here if I thought this charge to be unfounded, but it is your daughter who is sadly mistaken. Mr. Carver was there.'

'A lie!' I cry out.

'Lillian, enough now!' Papa shouts and I still myself at his anger, but my own bristles like a wild animal. 'How do you know this, Rector?'

'Why, because he was seen at Lutwyche Hall and left in pursuit of Mrs. Elmes and your daughter when they departed.'

Blood pounds inside my skull. I shake my head, a wave of dizziness seeking to overwhelm me.

'No,' I whisper. 'He was not there, I swear it. He was not....'

'He was, Lily.'

I look to Lizzie, who has taken a tentative step forward, her face drawn and stricken pale. 'He was there, Lily. When you and your mother consulted in the parlour room, I saw Mr. Carver loitering at the edge of the orchard, the same orchard where you and he met the day you asked me to keep your liaison a secret. He left as you did, stealing one of the Hawkstone horses to follow you. I know you wish not to hear the truth, but you must. For your own good, you must.'

'Lizzie... what are you doing?' I gasp.

'I am doing this for you, dear.'

I glare at her. 'If you were doing this for me, you would not say such things. Daniel was not there! He is blameless in all of this.'

'Miss Elmes,' Rector Williams says, gesturing strongly towards Lizzie. 'Even your own friend swears it. Surely you can see your opinion here is mistaken.'

'I see nothing, Rector!' I blurt out. 'It is my friend here who is the one which is mistaken. How can nobody understand that I was there? It was an accident.'

Rector Williams narrows his eyes, the glimmer there, triumphant. 'Nevertheless, Mr. Carver was at Lutwyche Hall and did depart after you, as Miss Darby here can testify is the truth. And then there is the fact that your mother and Mr. Carver's family have had a somewhat tumultuous history, as many in this town are aware. I put it now to Mr. Carver that not only has he committed the act of heresy against the Church itself, but he has committed the immortal sin of witchcraft and set out to be rid of Mrs. Elmes, simply because she sought to stand in his way and ensure he did not bewitch her only daughter into an unsavoury match.'

I recoil, astounded. 'That is simply not true! Lizzie, please tell them that you are mistaken!'

I do not know the person who looks at me across the room then. She has the face of someone I was once acquainted with, an appearance which seems familiar, but the Elizabeth Jane Darby I know and love is gone. I know not this creature that stares back at me now. Steel besets her features. Coldness stiffens the grim line of her mouth.

'I am not mistaken.'

My stomach plummets. Disbelief and despair spin adrift on the choppy seas, making me feel suddenly nauseous. How could she do this? How could she betray Daniel? Betray me?

'What say you now, Mr. Carver?' the Rector demands.

Daniel, who has barely moved since the Rector's arrival, lifts his head, his face pained but resigned.

'I say nothing,' he replies, his tone laced with bitterness. 'For I would receive no fair trial here.'

The Rector scoffs. 'The last I looked, this be a parlour room, sir, not a court room.'

Daniel finally unfurls, standing up straight and squaring his shoulders in defiance. 'Every one of your parlour rooms is a court room, Rector Williams. Do you think I have not stood in rooms like this my whole life and been judged by the likes of you? By these people?' He looks around, his derisive gaze resting on all who refuse to even acknowledge his mere presence. He is nothing but a ghost to them. But I see him. I have always seen him.

'Nay, sir,' he continues. 'I say nothing because I be damned anyway. I was damned the day I was born into this world and will be damned until the day I leave it.'

'And that day will come soon, no doubt.' The Rector smiles grimly. 'Constables, take him to the town gaol. By the end of the week, Mr. Carver, you will languish in Shrewsbury Prison, and then not even your Master, the Devil himself, will be able to save you.'