Papa calls to the horses, issuing a command to slow as he tugs on their reins, guiding them to take a gentle right turn into the entrance of Lutwyche Hall.

Lutwyche Hall, while not as grand as Shipton Hall or even Dudmaston for that matter, still manages to crush the breath from my body every time I set eyes upon it. It might have been owned by that insidious toad Mr. Hawkstone, but the owner had shed none of his lecherous aura onto the house, which is worthy of an artist's canvas.

Framed on either side by an orchard of cherry blossom which fan their blanket of delicate rose petals over the landscaped gardens, the red brick building stands proud in the summer glare, its large windows sparkling a welcome that raises a smile on my lips, despite the sombre reason for our visit. Lutwyche Hall truly is a thing of beauty. Even the death of Mr. Hawkstone has cast no shadow over the house, although if Mama's words about Mrs. Hawkstone are true, the inside might not have escaped the black shroud that only grief can conjure.

Papa brings the horses to halt at the end of the long driveway, where Mr. Leeke, the stable hand, waits to attend us. William jumps down first, offering his hand to Mama to help her off the trap, but his eyes are elsewhere instantly, and I know who he seeks. A funeral it might be, however to my darling younger brother, this is simply another opportunity for him to flirt shamelessly with Mr. Darborough's granddaughter, Jenny. He's been sweet on her since the Christmas Ball and now he's a raging inferno of lust and a mischievous streak a mile long.

Without bothering to help me down, he escorts Mama across the courtyard, leaving me to struggle on my own, muttering under my breath, until Papa appears to assist me, his eyes warm, but troubled with a touch of grief. My father has never been accustomed to public displays of emotion, and while Mr. Hawkstone had been an acquaintance of his for many years, I know it is not just the passing of his friend which has caused this melancholy.

'I grow weary of death, Lily dear,' he'd said, just two days before, as I'd knelt at his feet, after finding him alone in the parlour room, seated in his favourite armchair and looking smaller than the man I knew. Papa was always larger than life, both in size and in character. 'The more I hear of it, the more I am aware of the passing of time that comes to us all. Too many of my friends and loved ones have met theirs. A man cannot help but ponder when his time might also be at hand.'

'Nonsense, Papa,' I had exclaimed, alarmed, his words sending a chill through me. 'You are young yet. I'll not hear talk of death from you, thank you very much.'

Papa had smiled then, patting my hand in the way he had done since I was a little girl. 'My flower, Lily. I fear that when the day comes, and it will, for it comes to us all in time, you shall be standing with a poker in hand, ready to see off the Grim Reaper and wrap his knuckles with iron every time he dares to try and reach me with his deadly scythe.'

'I'll do more than wrap his knuckles, you see if I don't.' I grinned. 'I'll wrestle that scythe from his bony old hands and run him back to Hell from where he came.'

'Oh, my girl,' Papa had said, laughing as he leant down to kiss the top of my head. 'I do not doubt that for one second.' He cupped my chin between thumb and forefinger. 'You truly are a shining light, Lillian Antonia Elmes. However, we will keep your knuckle-wrapping urges to ourselves, for I fear you'll scare off half the county's prospective suitors and your mother and I will never find you a husband.'

I'd scowled at his remark. 'Husband indeed, Papa! All the men in this town are such dreadful bores and are more than deserving of a whack with a poker if you ask me. I think you may have a weighty task at hand if you intend to find me a husband from here.'

Papa sighed, but not without some mirth to his expression. 'Something tells me the task will be weighty, no matter where we go.'

I despise talk of husbands almost as much as I despise talk of death, and sadly the former has been a particularly popular topic of conversation in the Elmes household of late. While my friend Elizabeth - who also happens to be the governess of the Hawkstones' grandchildren – is glad of the death of Mr. Hawkstone for it also meant the death of his wandering hands, I am also glad of the old buzzard's death for it means that talk of marriage will be set aside for some time, until Papa's mood brightens once more.

I walk with Papa now, following Mama and William across the sun-blasted courtyard towards the steps that lead up to the door to Lutwyche Hall, when Papa abruptly stops and turns to me, taking both my hands in his. All at once I am fearful he shall start talking about death again, for he looks so sombre and I want to press my hand to his mouth and stop the words from finding their way into this world.

He clears his throat, a clear sign that he is about to say something he knows I will care little for.

'Lillian, your mother and I spoke just yesterday, and we have decided that you shall not attend today's ceremony.'

For a moment, I am bewildered. The sun is unbearably hot on the white stone tiles of the courtyard and I do not wish to linger here for a second longer, but Papa is as unmovable as the grand lion statues that sit either side of the stone steps.

'I don't understand, Papa? I thought you wished for both William and I to attend with yourself and Mama today?'

He squeezes my hand. 'We wish for you to attend the service itself in the Chapel and the wake afterwards, but not the ritual.'

As soon as he says that word, I know exactly of which ritual he speaks.

The Sin-Eating.

The very reason for which Mr. Daniel Carver now makes his way into the village.

'Papa, you do not need to concern yourself about me at a time like this,' I say, taking a deep breath. 'I was but a child then and dreadfully upset about Grand-Papa. It will not happen again, I swear it.'

Papa's voice is gentle, but in his gaze I see a resolute firmness. 'It will not happen again, because you shall not be attending.'

I have no idea why, but the idea of not being allowed to attend sends a punch of irritation into my chest and indignation explodes in a tight-knit fury at the thought of being excluded, as if I were still a child that needs protecting.

I should not feel like this. I should feel relieved; after all, I'd seen the work of the Sin-Eaters'. I knew it for what it was and had been plagued with terror over it for months afterwards, and yet the curiosity of my younger self that had prompted me to peek when no others would, still burns strongly within me. If anything, it rages stronger than it ever has, especially now I have laid eyes upon Daniel Carver. I want to see this man at work, and, more to the point, I wish for a chance to question him – nay, challenge him – over those words he'd whispered so coldly before I was struck down at Grand-Papa's internment.

'Honestly, Papa, I will be absolutely fine...' I say, but my father interrupts me with a shake of his head.

'You shall wait in the drawing room with William, Elizabeth and the children.'

I pull my hands from my father's grip. 'So, I'm to be considered a child now! Papa, it may have escaped your notice, but I am a woman of nineteen years. I do not need to be chaperoned by my younger brother!'

Papa's broad shoulders drop, and an exhaustion seems to ripple through his whole body. I am at once ashamed of my childish outburst, when I am trying so hard to be considered anything but.

'Oh, Lillian, you are not being chaperoned. Far from it,' he insists. 'Please understand that as your parents we think this to be the best course of action. Besides, Mrs. Hawkstone would prefer this to be a small, intimate audience only. Emotions about the Sin-Eaters' work have been running high of late, with talk of the Church outlawing the practice. We might live in a village, my dear, but the news of such a thing travels far and fast these days and we do not wish for the clergy to come knocking on our doors.'

'The Church?' I say, glancing around as if we are to expect them any minute. 'Really, Papa? They would do that?'

'They're talking heresy now in London, Lillian. Heresy!' Papa rubs his thumb and forefinger across his brow, a habit he has when he's troubled with head pain after a night at his gentlemen's club. 'They care not to understand our ways and superstitions out here in the country. They look for the Devil's work everywhere, and while the practice of Sin-Eating is not one we are overly comfortable with, we must do all we can to help the souls of our loved ones who depart from our world so suddenly and without any chance to absolve them of their sins before they leave us. Let us grant Mrs. Hawkstone her wishes and say no more about it, yes?'

Something of Papa's demeanour troubles me and I cannot refuse him. Without a moment's hesitation, I take his hand again and smile. 'Of course, Papa. At least I will get the chance to speak with Elizabeth, she's been terribly occupied of late. It's been so long since we were able to talk.'

Papa nods. 'Please do try to remember this is a funeral though, Lily. You know what your mother thinks of Elizabeth. She's a touch... exuberant.'

I roll my eyes. 'Mama has thought Elizabeth exuberant ever since she caught her riding without her breeches under her skirt. It's honestly the most ridiculous thing, she was in a hurry, that's all, and simply forgot them.'

Papa glances at me, amusement touching the corners of his mouth.

'Whatever you say, my dear.'

If the word exuberant had been invented with one person in mind, that person would have been my dearest and closest friend, Elizabeth Jane Darby.

I would never admit it to my parents in a thousand Sundays, but Mama's description of Lizzie as exuberant is not far from the truth and my assertion about why Lizzie was horse-riding without her breeches is a total lie. She rode without them because she insisted she would rather ride without any underwear than have to wear breeches, a petticoat and a skirt in this heat, particularly when men can just wear breeches and be done with it.

Lizzie is exuberant, and if truth be told, a touch wild at heart, but in a way that makes my own roar a little louder whenever I am in her company. Of course, I do worry for her, especially since she only continues to be in employment at Lutwyche Hall because she's a very skilled governess whom the Hawkstone children love dearly, and because Captain Andrew Hawkstone, their father and a chip off the old block where the fairer sex is concerned, is mostly away at sea.

I have been waiting in the drawing room, watching William and Jenny standing by the window and giggling together for what seems like forever, when Elizabeth sweeps in with the Hawkstone grandchildren trailing at her heels. With a skill that constantly leaves me in awe - for I know only too well what little beasts Ada and Arthur Hawkstone can be – Elizabeth sets them to reading in the two high-backed opulent armchairs in the corner, forbidding them to move until she instructs otherwise.

When this is done and she's content they are settled, she rushes over to me, sporting the broadest smile on her face.

I have known Elizabeth Jane Darby since we were both younger than the Hawkstone children are now and she has always possessed a beauty and a confidence about her of which I have always been more than a little envious. With a style that would rival any lady of standing from London, it is easy to see why men desire her and why so many of their wives keep a close eye on her whenever she is around them, not because of anything Lizzie would dare do, but because men do have a habit of losing their minds and their morals where she is concerned. Opinionated she may also be, but she possesses a good heart and is loyal to the core to anyone who has the fortune to be adored by her.

Of course, she's also the most daring girl I think I will ever know in my entire life and often shocks me with the things she says and does, but she maintains she is just a modern girl in a changing world.

'One day, Lily, my darling,' she said once to me, 'women will not be so caged as we are now, and I, for one, intend to be at the aviary door when it opens, ready to spread my wings and be the first to fly wherever I care to.'

That's often how I saw Lizzie – like a bird, her red hair reminiscent of the most beautiful plumage when it was allowed to hang loose. It's not loose now, but tied back in a perfect bun, making her look every inch the serious governess of the Hawkstone estate.

'How devilish of you to look this good even in funeral black, Lillian Elmes,' she says, as she embraces me. 'I thought maybe your parents wouldn't allow you to come. I'm so glad they did. The past few weeks have been dreadfully dull without you.'

'I know,' I say. 'Mama's had me so busy training to become a good wife one day, that I'm surprised my fingertips do not sprout a hundred leaks with the number of times I have pricked them with the needle. It's so utterly tiresome, I cannot tell you.'

Lizzie's eyes reflect her concern and irritation at this. 'I can quite imagine, especially when I hear from Mrs. Hawkstone that your mother has her heart set on matching you with one of the Baker twins.'

I groan out loud, prompting William to glance over, irritated that I'm disturbing his conversation with Jennifer Darborough, who thankfully for William's sake, seems to be oblivious to anything but my brother.

'Don't,' I say in hushed tones to Lizzie. 'Can you imagine being that unfortunate that you have a choice of two utterly repulsive creatures as them? The only saving grace I have is that Papa cannot abide either of them. He told Mama that Benjamin is a dew-beater and his brother Percy is no better than a saddle-goose. To be honest, I don't think Mama cares much for the Baker family either, but she's so desperate for me to find a husband and both have good jobs and great prospects it seems.'

Lizzie tuts her disapproval. 'Good jobs they may both have, but honestly Lily, can you see yourself having to take either of those men to your bed.' She shudders. 'It makes me feel quite nauseous just thinking about it.'

'Lizzie!' I gasp, pulling her further away from William and Jenny, feeling my cheeks warm at her candid speak.

'Well, one has to think about these things,' she says casually, with a mischievous smirk that is so typical of her. 'Talking of which, you need to come with me now before they get started. I have something to show you.'

'W-what?' I stammer as she leads me towards the door, and I wonder what on earth she could be talking about now.

Slipping into the hallway, we take a left towards the kitchen and servants' quarters to the rear of the house, away from where the small gathering of guests now linger in the reception room, their voices like whispers on the breeze as Mr. Hawkstone's cold, dead body awaits its final journey. Welcoming smells drift from the open doorway, the only evidence that anyone is at work within, the usually-lively kitchen horribly quiet today as the cooks go about their duties in respectful silence. Before we can reach them, Lizzie pulls me into a narrow walkway with barely enough room for us to walk side by side, before reaching a door at the end which stands slightly ajar.

Manoeuvring me to stand so I can see through the crack in the doorway, she moves close behind me, with her hand on my shoulder, motioning for me to look.

As I do, I realise this is the servant's entrance to Mr. Hawkstone's private study, a large sumptuous room, filled to the ceiling with mahogany bookcases and thick tomes of all manner of colours of leather-bound covers. The air is still thick with the scent of old cigar smoke that is no doubt engrained in every inch of surface, and I wrinkle my nose in distaste at the stale odour. It smells old and musty here and for a brief second, I cannot help but wonder if that is how Mr. Hawkstone now smells, although I know his casket will be stuffed full of cloves to hide the stench of his dead flesh.

I am about to protest to Lizzie that I want to go, when a figure moves into my line of sight and I find myself inching forward, my eyes widening, my breath caught in my throat.

Standing on the other side of the room, with his back to us, is the lone figure of Mr. Daniel Carver.

I have seen him only the once, and yet his stance and dusty, creased clothes are unmistakable, contrasting starkly with the opulent surroundings and with those guests gathering in the reception room down the hall. He does not belong here, and I think he knows this as much as I do, for his body is a knot of tense muscle and the air about him seems oppressive, as if it hopes to force him from the room and from this house. By his sides, his hands clench and unclench, a strange motion that makes me wonder whether he is trying to control his emotions or whether he is considering lashing out in some violent gesture.

I draw back slightly when he turns, fretting that he will spot us, but instead he moves towards the window where the sunlight does little to warm his grey pallor.

Creeping forward again, so that I can see him more clearly through the gap, I finally get a chance to observe the man of whom I'd only caught a glimpse before Mama had insisted I avert my gaze.

His curls look even more chaotic than before, some now sticking to his damp forehead where the perspiration glistens in the light. There is a faint reddish tinge to the hair that grazes his jawline and chin, and I notice, his face is younger than I had first thought it was. Why I had imagined him to be old I do not know, for I remember when we were children, he had possibly been but a few years older than myself, yet there is a youthfulness to his face still, and his skin looks soft and smooth, albeit in need of some colour to those cheeks of his. I cannot see his eyes so clearly – which is no doubt a blessing considering the power a Sin-Eater's eyes are rumoured to hold - but his lashes are dark and long and quite beautiful for a man.

I continue to watch him, the thrill of our illicit spying game sending delicious goose-bumps over my skin. I shouldn't be enjoying this, but I am. In fact, I think I am a little hypnotised at the sight of him and I don't know why because this is the man I should fear above all others.

I remember his predecessor Joseph Hemsby so clearly as if he were standing in front of me now, and I recall that he had not been a fine-looking man. Mama always said that the black art of Sin-Eating made the flesh ugly and the heart even uglier, but whatever heart pumps in the chest of Daniel Carver, the flesh he is made of is certainly anything but ugly.

As if reading my thoughts, Elizabeth squeezes my shoulder and whispers close to my ear.

'The Devil is rather handsome, is he not?'

I almost have to drag my gaze away to look back at her, noting how her full lips curve up in a mischievous smirk and her eyes hold a dark fire that inexplicably irritates me.

'Lizzie, he is a man, not the Devil,' I whisper back.

'My Mama says he is as close to the Devil as we'll ever meet,' says my friend, biting down on her lower lip and fixing the hottest stare back on Mr. Carver. 'Just look at those hands, Lily,' she says with a sigh. 'I wager they'd feel awfully coarse upon the skin. Can you imagine him grabbing hold of you with those strong, rough hands of his?'

'Elizabeth Jane Darby, you really are the worst!' I hiss at her, aghast at her words, but my cheeks are already growing hot at the thought of it. 'You've been spending far too much time with that Edmund Turner down at the farm again. You've become as incorrigible as he is.'

'But Lily dearest, being incorrigible is so much fun, although I wonder if Mr. Carver's hands are quite as magical as Edmund's.' She taps her index finger to her bottom lip. 'Maybe I should try and find out.'

'You will do no such thing!' I retort, horrified.

'Why on Earth not?' Her eyes widen a little as she stares at me. 'Oh, I see. Okay, in that case, fear not, my sweet, for I shall let you have the spoils of this one, but I absolutely insist you tell me all about it. I'll want every tiny detail and you shan't be allowed to miss one thing.'

I am so taken aback than that I can barely speak. 'I do hope you're not suggesting that I might have any interest in that man?' I manage to splutter.

Elizabeth grins wickedly. 'Darling Lillian, your words may tell one story, but your face speaks of an entirely different tale altogether.' Leaning forward, she plants a small kiss on the end of my nose and giggles. 'I know you too well, remember?'

My mouth opens to protest, but the sound of a voice diverts my attention back to the room.

Mr. Hawkstone's butler, a stiff and humourless man and as slight of body as Mr. Hawkstone was large, has entered the study and says something to Mr. Carver that I cannot make out, before leaving the room immediately.

With a nod of his head, Daniel Carver reaches over to the windowsill and picks up a book, clutching it to his chest and I can see instantly that it is the leather-bound volume that I had seen him holding as we passed by his side earlier. His fingers dig into the cover and he holds it so tightly that I can see his knuckle bones protruding white through his pale skin. Dark thoughts arise, unbidden, images of me running my fingertips over his knuckles, of pressing my lips to them and I'm all at once disgusted and aroused by this.

I don't want this man. I don't.

This is Lizzie's fault. Her words have made me believe things about myself that are simply not true. Her words have made me think things I should never think.

I don't want him.

He breathes out deeply, an exhale of breath that appears to darken like smoke in front of his face and I am transfixed by the sudden change in him as he does so. The way his shoulders lift and straighten. The way his cheek muscles twitch, his jaw tensing and releasing. The way his body seems to push back at the air that would have ejected him so readily just moments before.

His mouth begins to move, words soundlessly slipping out and I am unable to tear my eyes away, my gaze coveting his face as he seemingly whispers to an empty room. To himself.

I want to hear what he is saying so badly, that I push myself closer, moving my head to strain to listen, my hand clutching tight to the doorknob as if I mean to pull the door open wide and reveal our hiding place.

He's repeating it over and over now, this strange chant, the whispering growing louder and louder.

In the small confines of the hallway, the air is stifling warm, and I can feel Lizzie's breath hot on the back of my neck, but my whole body feels as cold as the February snowfall.

I am cold now. So very cold.

As cold as his whispers.

As cold as the way he is now staring back at me.

'I pawn my own soul, I pawn my own soul, I pawn my own soul.'

'Lily, stop it,' says Elizabeth, urgency in her tone, her hands pulling on my shoulders, desperately trying to stop me from opening the door. My fingers curl around the handle and I tighten my grip. I need to open the door. I need...

'I pawn my own soul, I pawn my own soul, I pawn my own soul.'

'Stop, Lily, stop, stop.' There is fear in Lizzie's voice now, real fear that digs deep into my bones and my heart, and I blink, my focus interrupted.

Daniel Carver finally pulls his gaze from mine and my hand relaxes instantly and I stumble backwards into Lizzie, as if holding onto the door was the only thing keeping me upright.

I am barely able to pull myself together, before Lizzie has spun me around, pushing my back against the wall of the narrow walkway, her fingers now digging into the tops of my arms.

She looks furious – still terrified – but furious all the same, and I have no idea why she would look at me in this way. Elizabeth Jane Darby has never looked at me in this way, not once in all the years I have known her.

'Why did you do that, Lily?' she hisses at me. Her eyes are wide and her lips tremble as she speaks. 'Why on Earth would you do that?'

I blink again and swallow. My whole body feels weak and drained, like a flower about to wilt.

'I'm s-sorry, Lizzie, I wasn't going to open the door, I swear it. I just wanted to hear what he was saying, is all.'

'What?' she gasps, and I can see that tears prick her eyes. Great wells of tears threaten to spill over, and I don't understand this at all. 'He wasn't saying anything. You were the one saying those dreadful things.'

I stare over her shoulder into the room beyond. Daniel Carver has gone.

'It was you, Lily,' she says. 'It was all you.'