‘Do you want her shod or not? There’s an apron on the wall.’

Minna looked over at the stiff, dirty smith’s apron hanging by the door and gave a gusting sigh that blew the dark curls off her forehead. Then she rolled her eyes and pulled it down, winding the laces twice round her middle to make them meet.

‘The things I do for you, Luke Lexton.’

‘The thing I do for you, Minna Sykes. I could’ve been abed another hour if it weren’t for Bess and her shoe.’

‘It weren’t my fault she threw it off,’ Minna said pertly as she began to work the bellows.

‘No?’ Luke shoved the metal back into the heart of the blaze and watched it flicker from red to gold, then back. ‘Whose fault was it then? You’ll have to pump those bellows harder.’

‘Oh for the love of . . .’ Minna gritted her teeth and then winced. ‘Ow.’

‘Is that tooth still hurting you?’

‘Yes. Lucy give me a teaspoon of laudanum last night and I slept, but it’s back throbbing fit to bust today.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t take that stuff.’

‘What – laudanum?’ Minna’s face showed her surprise. ‘Don’t be such an old woman, Luke. If it’s good enough for Her Majesty it’s good enough for me, ain’t it?’

‘It’s not safe. Haven’t you seen the opium addicts down at Limehouse?’

‘A’course I’ve seen the opium addicts. But it’s laudanum, Luke, practically no more than weak gin – they give it to babies!’

‘And what happens when you can’t afford it no more, eh?’ He pulled the horseshoe out of the fire and looked at it again. ‘Nearly there.’

‘Then I’ll beg it off Lucy.’

‘What happens if Lucy says no?’

‘Then I’ll go without! For gawd’s sakes, Luke, stop fussing and shoe the bleeding mare.’

Luke said nothing. He pulled the shoe out of the fire and looked at it again.

‘It’s ready. You can stop.’

Minna gave a sigh of relief and came over to stand by Bess’s head as Luke hammered and bent the shoe, curving it to fit the shape of the one Bess had thrown yesterday. The ringing sound of the hammer was clear and true, filling the small space, driving out the evil whispers of the night before. Minna said something and he cried, ‘What?’ above the din.

‘I said,’ she shouted, ‘you’ll be as deaf as William in a year or two!’

Luke only laughed and carried on. It was true, but he could think of worse fates than ending up like his uncle: hard of hand but soft of heart, and deaf from the constant hammering.

At last the shoe was close to the right shape and he stood, holding it in the big pincers.

‘Let’s try it against Bess’s hoof. Come on now, old girl, come on.’

She was used to being shod and let him back her towards the forge and pull her hoof between his leg. But as he bent over to put the shoe to her foot, the wound on his shoulder gave a great stab, making him catch his breath and stop. Bess felt his pain and gave a little whinny, shaking her mane.

‘Are you all right?’ Minna asked curiously.

‘Nothing.’ He shook his head and bent again.

‘‘What’s that under your shirt? I can see something – have you hurt yourself?’

‘I said, it’s nothing,’ he said shortly. Minna gave him a look, but subsided. Then the hot metal bit and the smell of burnt hoof filled the morning air. Bess gave a little protesting snicker at the sharp smell, but he lifted it away before she could feel the heat.

‘It’s good.’ He plunged the shoe into barrel of rainwater, hearing the hiss and bubble as the hot shoe hit the cold water. ‘But you shouldn’t work her so hard, Minna. Her hooves are fit to split.’

‘That’s why I’m getting her shod, ain’t it?’ She stood, watching, as Luke fitted the shoe to Bess’s hoof, hammering it on, turning the nails flat.

‘She needs a holiday, poor old lady,’ he said as he released the foot.

‘I need a holiday an’ all.’ Minna pulled on the bridle and yanked Bess towards the waiting milk cart outside the gate. ‘And I ain’t going to get one, so less of the bleeding heart for the horse, thank you.’

He watched as she backed Bess between the shafts and hitched her up. Then she clicked her tongue.

‘Thanks for shoeing her, Luke.’ She put her hand towards her skirts where her purse hung. As she fingered it Luke could see from its lightness that it was empty, or near enough. He could have told that even without the way she chewed at her cold-chapped lips as she asked, ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Another time.’

‘I ain’t taking no charity, Luke Lexton.’

‘It’s not charity.’ He feigned irritation, showing his black hands, covered with soot from the forge and the hot metal. ‘I want to get cleaned up. Pay me another time.’

She smiled, bright and wide, relieved.

‘I owe you one.’

‘You owe me more than one, Minna.’

‘And I’ll give it yer, one of these days. Bye, Luke.’ She grinned, clicked her tongue to Bess and then they clip-clopped up the lane, towards the City and the dairy.

Luke was still standing, watching the lane, thinking, when he heard footsteps behind him and his uncle came through the gate.

‘She works that horse too hard,’ William said.

‘I know.’ Luke rubbed his hands on his apron and turned back to the yard, ready for the day’s work. ‘I told her. But she works herself too hard and all.’

‘Did you charge her for the shoe?’

‘She’ll pay.’

‘No she won’t. You’re too soft-hearted.’

‘It’s not her fault. How’s she supposed to make a girl’s wage stretch to cover four mouths?’

‘I know, I know.’ William shook his head. ‘And her dad’s as useless as they come.’

‘He’s not long for this world, neither.’ Luke thought of the last time he’d seen Mr Sykes, sitting in his own piss in a corner of the hovel Minna called home, with his youngest two running around his feet, noticed only when they came too close to knocking over his bottle.

‘There’s many a better man than Nick Sykes rotted their brain with moonshine,’ William said. ‘She should sell that horse, get a donkey, use the money for the little’uns.’

‘She never will,’ Luke said with certainty. ‘You know Bess was her dad’s, back when he were a drayman. In Minna’s eyes she’s just borrowing Bess until he’s fit to work again.’

‘And that’ll be sometime west of never,’ William Lexton said with a sigh. Then he turned to the forge. ‘Come on now, enough gabbing. We’ve got work to do before I lose you.’

‘Lose me?’

‘Well, you can’t work here and do your task for the Brotherhood, can you?’

‘But—’

‘It’s not going to be easy, Luke. I tried to tell you last night, but you were too full of yourself to listen. No, no –’ he held up a hand as Luke began to protest ‘– I know. And I would have been the same at your age. But these are no ordinary witches, Luke. John Leadingham’s told me a bit about this family. The son’s thick as thieves with Sebastian Knyvet. They went to school together, spent half their boyhood round at each other’s houses, from what I can make out.’

‘And who’s this Knyvet bloke then?’

‘Who’s . . . ?’ His uncle gave him a look that mingled surprise and irritation. ‘Do you listen to anything I tell you? I tried to tell you all this last night. He’s one of the Ealdwitan. And you know who they are, don’t you?’

Yes. Luke knew who they were. The witch elite of England. The ruling council. If they only ruled the witches – that would be one thing. But their tentacles reached into every place of power in the land. Half the MPs in the House of Commons were Ealdwitan and a good measure of the peers in the House of Lords too. If there was a prospect of money or power they were there, to get their share of the pie, and more.

‘Aloysius Knyvet is one of the Chairs who head the Ealdwitan. Sebastian’s his eldest son. Now do you see why I said this was a fool’s errand?’

‘So they’ve got friends in high places.’ Luke shrugged. ‘They’ve still got skin that burns and flesh that bleeds, don’t they?’

‘Yes, but it’s getting to that skin or that flesh. And that’s easier said than done. At least you’ve got an advantage, though I don’t know how far it’ll help. You’ll have to be careful not to let on. If you once show what you are, that you know what they are . . .’

Luke turned away. He hated being reminded of what he was. A witch-finder.

No one knew where the ability had come from. William thought he had been born with it, and that perhaps Luke’s father had had the same ability but had never known it, or had kept it secret through fear. John Leadingham thought that it had been gifted to Luke the night he watched his parents die – that that one searing experience had burnt the gift into him, so that never again could he look on a witch and see an ordinary man or woman. Except, as Luke himself often wondered, he could not be the only person to have seen a witch, nor even the only person to have seen a witch kill. But he was, as far as he’d ever heard, the only person who saw them for what they were, as clear as others saw black from white. Even in the street he could see them, dressed like ordinary people, walking and talking like ordinary people but with their witchcraft shimmering and crackling around them, marking them out as clear as night from day.

Sometimes it was nothing but a faint gleam, soft as a dying ember. Other times it was bright; bright as a gas-lamp, bright as a flame. When they cast a spell the magic flared and waxed, as the candlelight guttered and waxed in the draught from the door. Then it waned, fading back, leaving them dimmer than before.

It had taken him a long while to understand that others did not see witches as he did. It had taken the Malleus even longer to believe what they had found – a child who could see witchcraft – no need to test and prod and accuse. His word alone was enough.