'Lillian dear, are you going to eat your grouse, or are you going to continue to push it around your plate in the hope that the act itself will wear it down until it is no more?'

Mama's voice has always been able to reach into any melancholy or fanciful daydream I might find myself in and pull me back out into reality. I look up from my plate, where the near-cold grouse sits in a rather thick mess of gravy.

'Sorry, Mama,' I say, offering a weak and unconvincing smile. 'I'm afraid I am really not very hungry.'

Mama places her cutlery aside her plate in the most delicate manner. Mama has perfected the art of delicacy in everything she does and often makes me feel like a wild boar crashing through the forest in comparison. She affords me a smile in return, but I see the concern in her eyes.

'You have not been hungry for two days now, dear. Am I to believe you are sickening for something? Should I ask Marie to call for Doctor Benedict?'

My eyes widen and I sit up straighter in my chair. 'No, no, Mama, that really is not necessary.'

Doctor Benedict has known and tended to our family for many years, but while he was a friend of Grand-Papa Elmes, he is an absolute buzzard who believes that women who sicken are merely proving their weakness to the world. I cannot bear to be in his company without wishing to wrap his stethoscope around his scrawny bird-like neck until he squawks.

William, who knows of my distaste of Doctor Benedict, smiles mischievously from his seat opposite me at the table. He has been looking particularly pleased with himself these past two days, which has only succeeded in deepening my troubles.

'Now that I think of it, Lily,' he says, innocently cutting at a piece of grouse on his plate and ceremoniously dunking it into the gravy, of which he appears to have a rather large serving on account of the fact Aggie the cook has a particular fondness for him. 'You do look rather peaky. In fact, some would say, positively grey of hue. Perhaps Marie should call on the good Doctor and have him prescribe you that rather delicious medicine you always say you love so much.'

I scowl at him and resist the urge to hurl a piece of gravy-laden grouse at his new silk vest, of which he has spent a ridiculous amount of time admiring in the mirror at every available opportunity.

'I am perfectly well, thank you very much, William and seek not the attention of Doctor Benedict nor anyone else for that matter. Perhaps you should concentrate more on your dinner than on me. I would so hate for you to ruin your vest, particularly when you have gone to so much trouble of admiring it in every single mirror that you pass.'

At the end of the table, Papa issues a snort and desperately tries to cover it with his napkin, doing a rather good job of pretending to wipe his mouth.

'Are you okay, dear?' Mama asks, knowing full well that he is. Not only has my mother perfected the art of delicacy, but also the art of raising a quizzical brow when she is already fully aware of the answer to her question.

Papa recovers instantly and waves away her fake concern, turning his attention on me.

'You look perfectly radiant to me, Lily my flower, as always.'

It is William's turn to scowl now. Papa is rare in that he openly professes his affection for both his children in a way which is heartfelt and lacking in any shame, but he is always particularly kind to me, something which often irks my darling younger brother.

'Thank you, Papa.'

'Although flowers do lose their radiance when not well fed,' Papa continues, looking pointedly at my barely touched plate. 'If you seek not to alarm your mother and have Doctor Benedict call on our household, I would suggest that you finish your dinner, particularly when I went to so much trouble of killing the grouse in the first place.'

'And a mighty fine shot it was too, Papa.' William chimes in.

'It indeed was, my boy,' Papa replies, his eyes displaying the same mirth I often see in William's. 'Sadly, yours was quite wide of the mark, if I recall. I really must ask Silas to take you for more shooting practice. It appears something has gone quite amiss while I've been in London.'

I stab a small piece of grouse with my fork and plonk it into my mouth, staring at William and smiling sweetly as I chew, while my dear disgruntled brother now looks at his grouse as if it mocks him from his plate.

'Yes, Papa,' he grumbles.

'In all earnest, dearheart,' Papa says, turning his gaze back to me. 'You are well, are you not? You have been somewhat subdued since Mr. Hawkstone's funeral. I trust the melancholy of Lutwyche Hall does not rest too heavily upon you?'

I blink at Papa, suddenly feeling like I cannot breathe at the thought of that day, but recover quickly, seeing his astute eyes narrow. Papa has a rather fine knack of appearing completely oblivious to all sorts of goings on, while actually absorbing everything like a sponge.

'I am perfectly well, Papa, thank you,' I say. 'It was an awfully sad day for Mrs. Hawkstone and her family.'

William screws up his face in the same way he has always done since he was a child. 'That's really not what you were saying the other day, Lily. Remind us all again, what was it you said Mrs. Hawkstone would be doing after hearing of her husband's demise? Something about swinging from the rafters, was it not?' He laughs heartily as he mops up a big dollop of gravy with his potato and somehow manages to put it all in his blasted mouth without spilling a drop.

'Children, honestly,' Mama says, with an exasperated sigh. 'Must we have this constant battle between the two of you at the dinner table? Sometimes I fear neither of you will ever truly grow up.'

'Oh, Rachel,' Papa says, his smile rich and wide. 'Growing up is so dreadfully boring though. Soon they will make their way into this world, and be weighed down with responsibility and obligation, and you and I shall dine either end of this ridiculously long table and miss the noise and kerfuffle these two do make. I, for one, am glad of the battles and seek to relish them for as long as I possibly can.'

'Hear, hear, Papa,' William says, raising his glass in cheer and we all follow, although Mama does give Papa a rather chastising look over the top of the crystal edge.

'One would have thought you had grown weary enough of battle, my dear.'

Mama's face is full then of warmth and affection and I am taken in, as I always am, by their open love for each other. As I have grown in age, I have spent a lot of time studying the married couples of their circle to determine what my future may hold, and I am always disheartened to see too often so little warmth and fondness amongst those friends and acquaintances of my parents. It saddens me to think so few possess the same love that Mama and Papa have for each other, or at least, believe their love should remain unspoken and unuttered. I have not known love, nor anything remotely close to it, but it has always seemed like something that should not be trapped in a birdcage, fit only to twitter and chirp behind bars and never be allowed to fly freely.

'Battles on the sea are something these old bones can do without, but jovial battles between my children, I shall never tire of.'

'Admiral Richard Elmes, I never thought I would hear the day you would admit to tiring of the sting of salt water and the thundercrack of cannons, but I, for one, am glad to know it. I much prefer your feet to be on solid ground.'

'These days, I think my old bones are pleased of it as well.' He smiles fondly at Mama, before looking down and smiling almost as fondly at his dinner plate. 'I must say, Aggie has cooked the grouse to perfection.'

Dinner continues with much spirited conversation between Papa and William as always, but I cannot help but drift back into my thoughts which have plagued me so these past two days. Lizzie's stricken face. The strange whispering chant from Mr. Carver in that dusty, smoke-stained room. The overwhelming scent of cloves. The idea that I was the one saying those dreadful words had seemed highly preposterous at first – after all, why on Earth would I? And yet, since that day, an uneasy fluttering has well and truly settled in my stomach and instead of feeling a sensation of butterflies, I can only picture great hawkmoths inside, their brown, furry bodies crowding the small space.

It is no wonder my appetite is surely lacking.

Marie and Aggie bring dessert, and while my enthusiasm for the sweeter course is common knowledge at our dinner table, I can barely bring myself to look at it without feeling ever so slightly queasy.

'Aggie really has outdone herself today, I must say,' Mama says, her eyes widening as her spoon glides into the lemon custard.

'Yes,' Papa agrees, between copious mouthfuls of pastry and cream. 'We are blessed indeed, not only to have such a wonderful cook, but also to have the good fortune of a plentiful table at all times. We must never forget the gifts the good Lord has granted us, particularly when so many do not have as much as we do.'

He closes his eyes for one second, whether to give thanks to God or to savour the last morsel of dessert he has taken no time in devouring, I am not sure.

'Talking of which,' he says, wiping at his mouth with his napkin, and glancing at me. 'Lily, do you still plan to attend the market tomorrow, to hand out the baskets from the fruit harvest?'

Sharing the bounty from the fruit harvest has been a family tradition of ours since the time of my Great-Great Grand-Papa Elmes, mostly, I'm led to believe, on the insistence of his wife, whose charitable leaning had her spend more time with the poor than was expected of a lady of her standing. Even on her deathbed, she insisted that her husband vow to continue her good work after she had passed and, since then, the tradition has never died.

I afford Papa a smile, glad not to have to attend to the custard and pastry on my plate, which seems more like a mountain of dessert every time I try to tackle its peaks ineffectively with my spoon.

'Yes, Papa, I am looking forward to it. The apple harvest is particularly healthy this year. In fact, I've not seen the trees supply so much.'

'Then we must be rid before the birds sour them. You will go with Marie?'

I nod. 'Yes, and Silas will help load the baskets onto the trap.'

'Perfect.' Papa has cleaned his dessert plate as if there was nothing on there to begin with. Not one trace of custard or crumb remains. 'Your Great-Great Grand-Mama would be most content, no doubt, to know our daughter carries on her good work.'

'I hope so, Papa.' I look back down at the dessert and dip my spoon into the custard, taking but a mere morsel onto my tongue and hoping dearly it does not make me choke. 'I was wondering, however...' I pause, stopping to smile again, knowing that it softens Papa. 'How do you think I could send a basket to Mr. Carver? I understand he lives out in the woods and am struggling to know how he must fetch his provisions, when he is so unwelcome in the town.'

At the sound of his name, Mama's spoon drops from her hand, clattering onto the edge of her plate, cream smearing the tablecloth. Placing a hand over her heart, she stares at me, fear evident in her expression. I am all at once shamed to see it.

'Lillian,' she exclaims. 'Why on Earth do you seek to supply harvest to that dreadful man?'

'Mama, it is the work that he does that is dreadful. How do you know if he is too? He might be a perfectly agreeable gentleman.'

'Gentleman, indeed!' Mama's face has turned from ashen-white to a rather alarming shade of red, much like a strangled goose. 'He is no gentleman, for no gentleman takes upon such dark work. Besides, he is paid for it. I am quite sure Mr. Carver can provide for himself.'

'To be fair, the Sin-Eaters are paid naught but a pittance, Mama,' William says.

'They are paid a fair salary for their services,' Mama insists, grabbing her napkin and twisting it between her hands. 'He has not complained, nor did his uncle before him.'

'Mayhap they feel they cannot. Their standing does not really allow them a voice,' my brother insists, and I feel a sudden sense of warmth for him then. William might be rather irritating and often a thorn in my side, but he has a social awareness that often belies his young years.

Mama stares at him and I see the cracks in her composure widening as each second goes by. I reach a hand across the table towards her, a gesture, nothing more as Papa was right about this being a ridiculously long table.

'Mama, I only seek to ensure that everyone is able to take a basket. Great-Great Grand-Mama Elmes would want me to do that, I'm certain of it. We have so much fruit harvest already. It seems madness not to distribute it to all of those who might benefit. I believe that Mr. Carver is surely in need, just as many others in town not so fortunate as us. I am sure someone at the market can point me in the right direction so I can be certain he receives a basket.'

William, who has not stopped eating throughout the conversation, plunges his spoon into his large serving of lemon tart and shrugs, as if he is unaware that Mama looks like she is about to faint and is fanning her napkin at her face quite vigorously.

'Then you should speak to Ebba Cole, dear sister,' he says, shovelling a rather large spoonful into his mouth, and twirling his fingers as he chews, a sign that he wishes to speak again once he is finished eating. 'Ebba prepares a basket of provisions every week for Mr. Carver and sends little Stella Turner to give them to him.'

I frown, something Mama often tells me not to do, for it will provide me with wrinkles at too young an age, not that she appears preoccupied with such a worry at this moment in time.

'Little Stella Turner, the farmer's daughter? Edmund's sister?' I shake my head. 'But I don't understand. Why on Earth does Ebba Cole send her? Out into the woods of all places! Stella can only partially see. She is almost blind from birth.'

'Then she is the perfect candidate for the job. A child who cannot see, cannot be cursed by the Sin-Eater.'

Don't look, Lillian. Never look in the eyes of a Sin-Eater, for you will be as cursed as he is and will forever languish in darkness.

Mama's words from my childhood send a coldness up my spine.

Of course! Daniel Carver cannot attend the town for his provisions, because his curse does not afford him this freedom. William is right. Stella Turner is the perfect candidate to take food to him at his home.

'But how does she find her way through the woods?' I ask, completely perplexed. 'Her misfortune might allow her not to look upon the Sin-Eater, but how does she reach him without falling prey to twisted roots, or worse, woodland creatures that might harm her?'

'I think perhaps we should end this discussion,' Mama says, but William ignores her, breaking out into a raucous laugh.

'And just what do you think lurks out in the woods, Silly Lily?' he says, baring his teeth like an animal and holding up his hands as if they are beastly clawed paws. 'Bears, mayhap? Wolves? Dragons, even? I think you have spent far too long with your nose stuck in those fanciful books of yours.'

'And I think your nose will find its way into that preposterously large serving of custard if you see fit to keep mocking me as if I was the younger of us two. I'm quite sure Jenny Darborough will not be so sweet on you when she sees your nose is twice the size of what it was.'

'Okay, okay, that is quite enough,' Papa says, raising his voice as much as Papa ever raises his voice in our house. He might have been a force to be reckoned with as Admiral, but with us, he only ever displays a quiet but firm discipline that is never disobeyed. 'I think perhaps your Mama would prefer a more congenial topic of conversation that does not involve dragons and Sin-Eaters and rather rumbunctious dunkings into lemon custard, as wonderfully delicious as the custard may be.'

Mama offers him a weak smile and does her best to mend the cracks in her composure, but I can see how ruffled she is and am ashamed to know I am the cause of it.

'I'm sorry, Mama,' I say, nudging William's foot under the table to prompt him to follow suit, which he does, albeit still eating his dessert as if he thinks it will grow legs and run away from him.

'Not to worry, dearheart,' she says, but I notice how the napkin is still tangled between her hands which remain fisted on the table. 'I think you need not fret over providing any more baskets. You do quite enough already and I'm certain the trap cannot hold too many for fear the wheels may break under the strain.'

'Yes, Mama, I understand,' I say, understanding her meaning only too well.

As always, the matter of Mr. Daniel Carver is closed, as far as Mama cares, and I am not to concern myself with him nor how he goes about gathering his provisions.

Of course, the matter is most certainly not closed.

Little Stella Turner might be immune to the Sin-Eater's curse, but I clearly am not. I looked upon him once, many years ago and did look upon him again but two days afore and whatever has come to ail me, whether a curse or not, I intend to discover just what that is.

Mr. Daniel Carver is the only person who can provide the answers I seek, and I will go into the woods if I have to. Bears, wolves, and dragons be damned.