I am not afraid of Rectory Wood.

I'm not.

I am not in the least bit affected by the words of little Stella Turner, that girl with the fierce face and the dark warnings of something I might discover here that I should not look at.

I'm not.

Absolutely not afraid.

Having mastered the hillside pathway at the entrance - with some trouble, it has to be said, for it is not easy to climb a hill with two laden basketfuls on my arms and skirts that seem intent on tangling around my legs – I find myself walking in woodland rich with a sublime beauty. The foliage is luscious and thick, layer upon layer of greens, gentle ambers and soft velvety browns. I spy the serrated edged leaves and deep grooved bark of the sweet chestnut tree. Either side of the pathway, huge beech trees stretch up, joining together to form a cathedral-like canopy. A dense carpet of fallen leaves and bristly catkins covers the ground. Pockets of sunlight stream through gaps in the tall trees, creating pools of warmth where pollen dances in the air with the bugs, like a magical miniature ballroom.

It is truly breath-taking to behold, but it feels like a trickery, for Rectory Wood is as silent as the parlour room when Grand-Papa Elmes lay like cold stone in the open casket.

Perhaps it is the sharp contrast with the hubbub of the marketplace that makes this place seem as unwelcoming as a graveyard, but it is not just the silence.

It's the stillness.

Apart from the bugs, it is eerily still. I expect the flutter of bird wings in the trees. The soft sway of the branches cascading gentle waves through the lush foliage. Crickets stirring in the long, wild grasses.

Instead, there is nothing. Nothing but the sound of my footsteps on the path, the swish of my skirts about my legs and my laboured breaths as the heavy load and strange atmosphere takes it toll.

I have half a mind to turn back, to forget this mad mission of mine, and if it were not for Stella's basket banging against my side, I would do just that, but I know I cannot. She entrusted me with the task that I practically begged her into letting me do and what would happen if I did not deliver the basket as promised? She would surely lose this employment and I will not allow that to happen.

No. I must continue, no matter how much the hair on the back of my neck prickles with each step farther into the woods and no matter how fast my heart beats in my chest.

Up ahead, I am greeted by a fork in the pathway. The thick, scarlet ribbon stretches around to the left. The right pathway, I know, leads directly to the Long Mynd and I can see in the distance, the valley where Carding Mill fills the air with the constant clunk and whirr of machinery.

As a child, William had been fascinated by the Mill and badgered Papa to take him to visit, so enamoured he was by the idea of the great machines that prepared the wool for spinning. When Papa had finally given in and taken him on a tour, William returned quite subdued. Later I discovered that a child worker at the mill had lost three of his fingers as he'd attempted to clean the carding machine and Papa had to usher William out, except William had already seen the blood and horror of that day and was not about to forget it.

'The others just went on with their work, Lily,' he'd said that night, eyes wide as cog wheels as he whispered his nightmare from under his covers, 'like it had never happened. The boy was taken out, quite traumatised from his ordeal, and do you know what they did with his fingers? They threw them away, Lily! They threw them in the waste with the discarded wool. Papa said the boy will never work the mill again and no doubt be a burden on his poor family. What will become of him?'

I frown as I walk, thinking back to my little brother's fear-filled eyes and the memories that haunted him. I know what it is to suffer bad memories of my own, and while I could not have imagined what it was like to see such a macabre scene as a young boy's fingers being scythed clean from his hand, I possess images that linger still. Dark wraiths that often torment my mind's eye, appearing often when I least expect it, seemingly hungry for the fear that the memory of Grand-Papa's soul-cleansing evokes within me.

A shiver passes down my spine and I shake it off as I follow the path of the ribbon into the woodland. My parents' fear of the Sin-Eater will not drive me away from Rectory Wood, nor will I allow the ghosts of my past to do the same.

As the pathway continues, the woodland becomes denser and darker. Here the sunlight struggles to pierce the tree cover and it is noticeably cooler, albeit a welcome relief from the heat that assailed me before I entered the woods. The baskets are feeling even heavier, weighing down my arms and creating a dull ache in my shoulders. I pause momentarily, placing the baskets on the ground so I can roll out the stiffness in my tiring muscles.

'It cannot be much farther...' I say to myself.

I stop and listen.

What was that?

I am certain I heard a crack of twig. A sharp snap in the air.

I wait, my senses piqued and on alert as I search for the source of the sound.

When you hear them in the woods, it's best not to look.

I avert my gaze instantly, little Stella Turner's words returning to whisper into my ear.

I'm being ridiculous, I know I am. There is nothing strange about the sound of a snapping twig in woodland. It will be an animal foraging in the bushes. A rabbit. Although, I am sure I recall Papa saying rabbits only come out at dawn or dusk, and from that sound, it would have to be a rather big rabbit, so possibly not a rabbit after all. A wild boar, maybe.

Goodness, I do hope it is not a wild boar, especially when I have a basketful of apples for the taking.

I pick up my pace, the baskets banging hard now against my hips, the handles chafing my arms.

I don't recall adventures being this uncomfortable when I was a young girl. I remember climbing trees in the orchard with William, hanging upside down from low-level boughs and laughing until I thought my sides would split when Mama would shriek for me to get down. I remember running down the hillside in the valley, Papa pretending he was manning the ship, barking playful orders at us to climb the masts and hold steady at the wheel, while the winds whistled through the Long Mynd and whipped my hair about my head. I certainly don't recall sore skin, wild boars and bruised hips.

I am almost ready to admit defeat, when through a break in the trees, I spy a light and then, as if some miracle mirage in the desert – a cottage.

'Oh, thank goodness,' I utter, drawing closer, my relief turning quickly to dismay, for if this is Daniel Carver's home, then I feel a sharp sting of shame at how terribly he is treated by the townsfolk. It is one thing to be shunned and refused a place in the village, but to live out here in these strange woods and live in a house such a this, I cannot begin to imagine the life he must have.

The silky, scarlet ribbon stops right where a short, stone pathway has been laid, leading right to the front door of the house which is unlike no house I have ever seen. I wonder how it is possible for the structure to remain upright, for it looks as if it would tumble at the mere prod of a fingertip. The sides of the house seem to push inwards, almost as if they seek to collapse and take their final rest, but instead hold precariously in place, thwarted only by the old thatched roof that prevents their fall. It reminds me a little of the model houses that William would make as a child, crushing balls of squidgy clay between his clenched fists in an attempt to mould them into something that was meant to resemble what he believed was the height of modern engineering, and instead looked like, well, just a ball of clay with no form whatsoever.

The only recent addition appears to be the pathway itself and as I gingerly step onto it, I hear and feel the crunch of stones under my feet and instantly I know Mr. Carver has installed this pathway for Stella's benefit alone, to allow her the knowledge she has reached her destination. I am not sure why, but that fills me with a touch of warmth that Rectory Wood has all but leeched from my body. It is a kindness that my parents and the other genteel folk would have everyone believe this dark, mysterious man does not possess.

Made buoyant by this and spurred on by a sudden rush of confidence, I take the short path towards the front door, but I am stilled by the light in the window to the left of the porch.

The window is small, but the glass is clear and dirt-free, apart from a lone spider which has made its web across the corner, and now waits for any unsuspecting bug to wander into its lair.

Inside, the room is dull and gloomy, lit only by a single gas lamp and by the flames from the fire which burns in the hearth. In front of the fireplace sits a large iron bathtub. Steam rises from the water, making the room look hazy and somewhat welcoming despite its gloomy appearance.

Movement catches my eye, and I watch, mouth agape, as Daniel Carver enters the room.

He is shirtless, and whatever heat the room holds seems to seep into my chest and make my heart beat a touch faster than before.

Lizzie was right. He is handsome, Devil or not, but he is more than that too. He is beautiful, achingly so, and I cannot help but let my curious gaze wander over his well-defined form. The hard lines of his chest. The thickness of his upper arms. His hands as they reach for the fall front of his trousers, fingers flicking the top button undone.

I should turn away now, but I cannot stop looking. My mouth feels suddenly dry and I push myself forwards as much as I dare, a fire kindling in the base of my stomach that could rival that which dances in the hearth.

A noise in the woods behind me makes me turn sharply, stealing the gasp from my mouth.

I watch and wait, ears pricked for another sound.

The woods remain silent, ominously so, as if they seek to match my stillness with their own. I fancy I can hear breathing, soft and shallow, a whisper of something in the low boughs of the trees.

My eyes pick out small movements. The slight sway of a branch. Leaves high up, oscillating on a breeze. A ripple of scarlet silk.

When no further sound meets my ears, I urge my heart to still and turn slowly back to the window, only to find myself now looking directly into the piercing gaze of the Sin-Eater, who stands with one hand braced against the frame as he watches me, his dark brows knitted together.

Squealing, I tumble backwards, falling over one of the baskets at my feet and ending up on my behind, the contents strewn about in the long grass.

Scrambling to my feet, I start to run, forgetting the baskets, forgetting everything, only knowing that I must leave this place, I must get away this instant.

My feet crunch frantically on the pathway as I run and I am certain I can hear the sound of the cottage door banging open and Mr. Carver angrily calling out to me, admonishing me for my presence.

Run, Lily.

I do as my own inner voice urges and run, cursing my stupid, ridiculous skirts for snaking around my legs like a constrictor, preventing my flight. A comb flies free from my hair, pinging off into the shrubs close by and curls begin to tumble loose, and I know I must look such an awful fright, but I also know that I must just keep running.

Even in my dishevelled, terrified state, I am acutely aware that all around me the woodland has come alive. Where there was once silence and stillness, there is all manner of noise and a great crunching as if something large barrels through the woods, cracking branches in its wake and crushing everything under its feet. From the sheer noise, I can only imagine it must be bigger than a wild boar. A bear, mayhap? Do we get bears in this wood? I have never heard Papa talk of a bear in Rectory Wood, but it can only be a bear, such is the great cacophony that seems to crash in my direction.

I am in such distress now that I cannot think straight, let alone run straight and my blasted skirts are finally my undoing as they tangle between my ankles and send me tumbling to my knees. The pain shoots sharply into my joints and I fall forwards, managing to save myself with my hands before my face hits the earth.

The noise in the woodland grows louder still, married with a distinctly human yet inhuman sound – wet, guttural groans that sound like the slap of a fist in sodden mud, something so utterly terrifying that I am at once filled with images of the old Sin-Eater lapping at the black tentacles which reach from Grand-Papa's open mouth. Fear claims me whole, fixing me there to the ground. I am unable to barely even open my own mouth to scream, let alone move my body.

I look up, tears stinging my eyes and blurring my vision, as the thick foliage directly ahead of me parts and for a moment, I cannot quite marry the image of what I thought pursued me with the horror I now see before me.

It is far, far worse than what haunts my memories.

The face of Mr. Hawkstone is almost as I remember him in life.

Slick-skinned, saggy jowls, beady eyed, yet now with a grey-tinged bloat as if his clothes cannot contain the swollen, puffy flesh with strains at his collar and cuffs.

He opens his mouth wide, emitting that same wet, gurgling sound I had heard just moments afore. I watch in frozen horror as he exhales, fog drifting over his lips as if it is a cold winter's day and not the height of summer, yet the fog is not wisps of delicate white, but as pure black as his tongue which has swollen so much, I know not how it can possibly fit inside his mouth.

I am about to scream – finally, thankfully, for the sound needs to tear itself out of me before I burst – when a hand claps roughly over my face, preventing me from my mission to howl until I pass out from the shock, and I am pulled roughly to my feet. I struggle as much as I can, scratching at the strong arms which encircle me firmly, until a gruff voice at my ear demands I stop.

'For the love of God, quit your damned struggling, Miss Elmes,' the Sin-Eater hisses coldly. 'And, when I remove my hand, I warn you – do not scream. Not if you wish to get out of these woods alive.'