'Don't look, Lillian. Never look into the eyes of a Sin-Eater, you will be as cursed as he is and will forever languish in darkness.'
Lillian Elmes remembers the warning her mother gave her about the town's Sin-Eater only too well.
How could she n...
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The market in the nearby town of Church Stretton is awash with noise and bustle.
Fred and Charlie Thompson, Farmer Thompson's boys, run with onions in hand, winding in and out of the crowd, trying to coax buyers to their father's stall. Adelia, the flower-girl – who is little more than a waif, it has to be said – calls out for people to buy her sweet violets and primroses, her voice sounding lyrical and melodic amongst the gruff, deep tones of the mostly male market vendors. Roy Bennett's fruit stall is stacked with a mountain of fresh produce - plump round gooseberries, thick pinkish-red stalks of sour rhubarb and lush, fleshy strawberries bigger than my thumb.
The smells and sounds intoxicate me as they always have. As Marie hands out the baskets of apples from our harvest, and I, the sprigs of lavender that I spent hours diligently tying with ribbon, I fancy I can see William and myself when naught but children, staring at the market vendors with wide, excitable eyes and wishing we could run with Edmund Turner through the crowd, calling people to buy our wares.
Of course, that life was never ours, and I suppose we should be thankful of less toil and for all that Papa has provided for us, but there has always been something about the market which turns my head.
Today, however, there is something else which keeps my head turned, or, I should say, someone, for my gaze has barely left Ebba Cole since we arrived.
Ebba Cole is as old a person as I have ever known. Even in our youth, she seemed positively ancient, and now I am grown and a young woman, Ebba still lives on, although her face is a map of wrinkles that deepen with each passing year and her hair is thin and wispy under her headscarf. No matter the weather, Ebba always wears her crochet headscarf and a thick, knitted shawl wrapped about her shoulders.
From my vantage point on the trap, I have viewed her journey through the market stalls, where she has purchased a basketful of provisions, covering them with a square of linen and barely buckling under the weight of the substantial load she carries. She stops every now and then to take a seat by the roadside, smoking from a small, thin clay pipe she has concealed in a battered old tin inside her apron pocket. In front of the dressmaker's shop, she places the basket by her feet and pulls a small flask from the same apron pocket, taking a long swig and smacking her lips together afterwards as if seeking to hold onto the taste. When she collects the basket again, I realise that she is leaving and now is the time, if I am to see if she will indeed meet with little Stella, as William has told me.
With demand great for our harvest baskets, there are not many that remain, but I take hold of one and start to climb from the trap, allowing Marie to help me down.
'I'll take this to Miss Darby now, Marie,' I say, feeling a sudden stab of shame that I have tricked Marie into thinking I am away now to meet with Lizzie, having regaled her with my woeful tale of a petty quarrel with my friend.
Marie fixes me with a sympathetic look and squeezes my arm warmly. 'I am sure that whatever disagreement you have had will be rectified, Miss,' she says. 'You have been friends too many years and I am certain that Miss Darby seeks to resolve matters too.'
