Mr. Carver grabs my wrist and pulls me along with him, backing away carefully from Mr. Hawkstone, who does not attempt to move, but stares at us with purple-rimmed eyes, his mouth moving as if he seeks to relinquish himself of that awful, blackened swollen tongue.

I do not struggle, but instead allow myself to be led, although how my terrified body moves freely, I know not. When we have reached a fair distance, Mr. Carver stops and scans the thickened copse of trees, as if he expects something else unimaginable to burst forth from the woodland. Seemingly satisfied when it does not, he begins tugging on my arm, urging me onwards until my feet again feel the crunch of the stone pathway beneath them.

'Wait,' I say, trying to pull free of his grasp. 'Where are we going?'

'To the house, of course.'

'What?' I squeak. 'I am not going in there with you.'

Mr. Carver stops and studies my face, his lips pursed tight. 'So, you came all the way here, just to see the outside of my house? How peculiar. I hope it was worth it, Miss Elmes. I'll take my leave then. Fret not, I'm sure Mr. Hawkstone will be more than happy to escort you back to town.'

With that, he releases his hold on my wrist and walks briskly towards the open door of his house.

Panicked, I stare wildly at the woodland, which still seems to bristle angrily, suddenly full of too many thorns and twisting vines as if it hungers for me to return so it can pull me into the sodden earth, perhaps to lay with Mr. Hawkstone, embraced against his bloated, slick body.

Mr. Carver is now at the porch, hastily gathering together the baskets and their spilled contents before entering the cottage without even so much as one glance backwards at me.

With a shriek, I scurry after him, slamming the door behind me and bracing my back against it. My breath cleaves in my throat, dry and rasping. I am making odd little squeaky noises which instantly make me feel pathetic and weak until I recall the squelching, wet sounds that Mr. Hawkstone had made.

The dead Mr. Hawkstone.

I clap a hand over my chest in a futile attempt to quell the maddening beat of my heart.

Blinking to clear the fog in my eyes, I freeze, suddenly aware that I am now in the home of the Sin-Eater.

I am alone.

Unchaperoned.

With a man they claim dwells in darkness and witchcraft.

What is worse, I wonder? To be out in the woodland, with a man I knew to be dead, or in here, with a man rumoured to be the Devil himself?

I look up, hardly daring to move.

The Devil stands by the window, peering out into the woods. The window height is low, and he has to bend to see out, his eyes narrowing as he does so.

'Do you see anything? Is he... is that thing still out there?'

Mr. Carver glances my way, studying my stricken face for a moment too long, before sweeping his gaze down my entire form in a way which should offend me, but I am too distressed to think of anything but the ordeal I have just suffered.

'You're looking pale, Miss Elmes,' he says, his expression sporting far less concern than his words imply. 'You're not going to faint, are you?'

I force the words out of my mouth, pushing them up over my tongue. 'I certainly am not, Sir.'

'Good,' he replies. 'I can't be having women collapsing on my floor. I've got quite enough to be concerning myself with. Dinner, for starters.'

He picks up the two baskets at his feet and moves to a small oaken table in the corner of the cramped room, removing the items he has retrieved from Stella's basket and shaking his head. His dark brows furrow as if displeased with what he finds there.

'I should make you go back to the market and buy me some more fish,' he says, not even looking at me as he frowns at the fish in the open wax paper, now demolished into small pieces from where I must have trampled it underfoot in my haste to flee. 'What do you expect I do with this now?'

My eyes widen. I try to keep my voice steady as I speak, but there is a notable tremor which I loathe to hear. 'There is a dead man out there stalking the woods, Mr. Carver and you wish to talk about fish?'

He looks at me then, his face serious and not without a shade of irritation. 'This fish would have provided me with three meals, Miss Elmes. The dead man provides me with nothing. So, yes, indeed, in this precise moment, I do want to talk about fish. Mackerel this size costs 4d. a piece. You're fortunate I didn't choose salmon because I'd be down a shilling now.'

I know not what to say to him. What is it about this man that renders me speechless? I am sure I must be sporting a wide-mouth gape, much like the mackerel on the table.

He shakes his head again, wrapping up the fish and slapping the packet back down onto the table with an expression that borders on disgust.

Swallowing, I attempt to stand up a little straighter, running a trembling hand over my free locks to at least regain some composure. 'I will certainly reimburse you for the cost of the mackerel, but...'

'Will you now?' he says.

'Of course,' I reply, doing my best to muster up a shaky smile. 'I will replace the fish. In fact, if they have salmon, I shall ensure to buy you that in place of the mackerel. To compensate for the inconvenience.'

'Inconvenience,' he mutters to himself.

'I can assure you, Mr. Carver, it was an accident.'

'Aye, a costly one it seems. At least to me, anyway. What are these?' he says, jabbing a finger at the basket of apples, some of which are looking quite unfortunate after I managed to trample over them too.

I clear my throat. 'Apples.'

He raises a brow, clearly exasperated and I inwardly curse myself.

Of course, they're apples, Lily, you foolish creature.

'From our harvest,' I manage to blurt out. 'We give baskets to the townsfolk every year. By way of a thank you. A-a charitable gesture.'

'Charitable,' he murmurs, running his fingers along the edge of the basket. 'How very noble of the Elmes family.' There is something in his tone which bites at me.

I stiffen. 'You mock me.'

Mr. Carver neither confirms nor denies it. 'It must be very gratifying, living in that fine house of yours, handing out baskets of apples to those less fortunate than yourself and offering to buy the likes of me an expensive fish that I usually would not be able to afford. Tell me, Miss Elmes, does it help you sleep more comfortably in your fancy eiderdowns and crisp cotton sheets?'

I recoil, as if slapped. I have offended him. I see it instantly, in his face, in his body language, in the distaste of his stare. I had only meant to offer him some rare kindness and instead, I have made him feel inferior.

'Mr. Carver, if I have offended you, that really was not my intention...'

'Then what was your intention, Miss Elmes, because it really wasn't to come here out of the kindness of your heart and offer me some damned apples?'

I take a breath. No one has ever spoken to me in this way before. The language. The anger. My stomach flutters nervously. I am seriously out of my depth and curse myself once more for foolishly thinking I could just turn up here and hope this meeting could have been anything but this.

'Why did you really come here, Miss Elmes?'

'I told you... the apples...' I stammer.

'... was nothing but subterfuge to give you a reason to arrive on my doorstep. You and I both know that bringing me apples is not the purpose of your visit.'

I stare at him with growing panic, feeling my dress sticking to me just as it had in the marketplace with the sun bearing down. It is unfeasibly hot in here, with the fire raging in the hearth and the steam rising from the bathtub.

I need to leave, but my mind flickers back to what I witnessed in the forest and I know not what I am to do. How am I meant to go back out there, knowing what awaits? The very thought of it makes my legs weaken and my breath quicken in fear.

'I am sorry, Mr. Carver,' I say with a nod, smoothing out the creases in my skirts, before clasping my hands together. I lift my chin, doing my utmost to show him I am not unravelled, even though I feel it deeply like I have never done before. 'It appears I have made an unforgivable error of judgement. I should not have come here. I apologise for the unwelcome intrusion and for taking up any of your time. I swear to recompensate you for the produce I ruined, like for like. I shall send Stella tomorrow with what I owe and then we shall say nothing more about it.'

Mr. Carver looks at me then so intently that I cannot fathom what I have now done to offend him. He chuckles, but there is no warmth in that sound. Sniffing, he rakes his fingers through his dark, unruly curls.

'Goodness, you really are an Elmes, aren't you?'

I bristle. 'You make it sound as if that is a terrible thing to be? I will have you know, Mr. Carver, that my family have lived here for many generations and we are incredibly mindful of the community we are a part of. This town and its people are important to us.

'Is that so? Does that include all the folk or just the ones your family deems important?'

'I don't know what you mean?'

Mr. Carver turns away, muttering something unintelligible under his breath as he packs everything back into the baskets. Picking them both up with an ease I surely lacked, he leaves the room through the nearby doorway and I am left standing, wringing my hands and unsure what I should do now. I should leave, I know I should, but I cannot. Instead, I find myself rooted to the spot, casting my curious gaze about the small room as if my eyes seek to covet every inch of this strange man's home.

The room is small and cramped, the ceiling lower than that in my own home with dark, oak beams jutting down that I'm sure Mr. Carver has to bow his head to avoid. Aside from the table and chair in the corner, there is little other furniture yet even the few pieces here seem to take up what little space there is. A single, threadbare chair sits not far from the fireplace, with yellowing dust covers on the arms. There is a small footstool by its side, stacked with a small pile of well-read-looking books and a simple candlestick holder atop. To my left, beyond the window which I was peeking through just a short time ago, there is another doorway, and I see a narrow set of stairs leading upwards. On top of the fireplace, I am surprised to see a small pot of ink and a steel nib pen by its side and I am struck by a sudden image in my mind of Mr. Carver bent over at the table, scribing smooth italics on parchment, his dark curls tumbling aside his cheeks.

I am still staring at the inkwell, my mouth open when the man himself again enters the room, his astute gaze following mine instantly. His lips purse tautly. I flush. Goodness, how I must displease him so!

I freeze, every inch of muscle in my neck feeling like stone as I look back at him. The firelight throws shadows onto his face I care not to see and yet, send a delicious shiver down my spine. Perspiration spots his chest and throat. I blink and quickly move my gaze back to his face.

'I've outstayed my welcome, Mr. Carver. I really must be getting back.'

'You outstayed no welcome because there was none,' he replies tersely, 'and yet I cannot let you go. Not now.'

Terror sparks in my chest as he begins to walk towards me and I back up against the door, desperately reaching again for the handle. I just manage to start opening the door, when he is upon me, his hand over mine, pushing the door closed. I shriek, small, mouse-like – feeble – and turn to face him as he looms over me.

'Mr. Carver,' I say, my voice trembling, 'I must insist you let me leave this place at once.'

His head tilts to one side, his mouth curling into a small, cruel smile. He is enjoying this, I'm sure of it. Drinking it all in, as if he is consuming my fear instead of his usual diet of souls.

'It would surely be remiss of me to let you go off wandering in these woods, Miss Elmes. Particularly consider what lurks outside.'

'What does lurk outside?'

'You saw it yourself, did you not?'

I swallow painfully. I feel as if I have not drunk a drop of water in days. 'I do not know what I saw,' I whisper. 'Whatever that was... it's not possible. It's not.'

'Okay. What do you think you saw?'

'I saw...' I trail off, suddenly realising that I am looking directly into his eyes and my hands are clutching at his arms. His bare arms.

'Stop,' I say, squeezing my eyes shut. 'I should not be looking at you.'

He chuckles. 'Oh, it's a little bit late for that, don't you think? And it's not like this is the first time you have looked at me, is it?'

'But the curse...' I whimper.

'What curse might that be, Miss Elmes?'

'You know full well about the curse of which I speak, Mr. Carver.'

'Oh,' he says. 'That curse. The one that says you should shun the Sin-Eater, and yet here you are in my house. The one that says that you should not look upon the Sin-Eater and yet it appears, time and time again, you just cannot help yourself.'

My eyes snap open.

'How dare you! I came here on good faith...'

'You came here because your curious mind could not resist. You came here because you seek answers.'

'And yet so far you have given me none,' I retort, feeling my anger rise. 'What I saw out there was the figure of Mr. Hawkstone, a man I know to be dead. A man for whom you performed the death ritual.'

'Aye, that I did,' he says, his face suddenly full of shades of regret.

'Then perhaps you care to explain to me why he appears to be walking around in these woods and not buried in his coffin underground? How can this be, Mr. Carver? What dark work is this?'

'It is not my work,' he says, stepping back, his eyes blazing. 'You can be rest assured about that.'

'Nothing you say assures me at all, sir,' I snap, finding some semblance of strength. 'First, I am assailed by a nightmare of what I cannot even begin to fathom, then you drag me into this house and refuse to let me leave. Not only that, but you make a number of pointed remarks about my family of which I do not understand, nor do I take kindly to. While your disdain is quite clear, I do think I am owed some kind of explanation as to what on Earth I saw out there, lest you want me to return to town and tell all of what I have witnessed. I shan't imagine the fancy folk of the village will look favourably upon a Sin-Eater who doesn't appear to be able to keep the dead in the ground where they belong.'

Daniel Carver straightens out his shoulders, assessing me haughtily.

Somewhere in the room a clock ticks dully. There must be a fault in the mechanism as one beat drags a millisecond longer than the one before it. It makes me feel a little disorientated and I am taken then at how exhausted I feel. It's the heat. The afterglow of terror that disquiets in my stomach. The tick-tick-pause-tick of the clock.

'As you wish, Miss Elmes,' the Sin-Eater finally says. 'You shall get your answers, or at least, the answers that I am able to confirm. But my water grows cold and I am not partial to cold baths, so your answers will need to wait until I am done.'

With that, Mr. Carver turns and heads towards the tub, where the steam still rises from the water, and – much to my horror – begins to remove his boots, one then the other.

I cannot quite believe what I am seeing and not for the first time today, this man knocks the air from my lungs and squeezes a fist around my heart, making it beat furiously.

He cannot surely mean to take his bath, not when I am present?