Six women filled the kitchen with their circle. The closed door and blind down at the window kept the sunshine at bay. Candles lined the table. At one end were unstoppered bottles and dishes of herbs. Stove hobs extinguished but for one, kept low, under a cast-iron cauldron. Another cauldron placed on the floor, filled with hot, sweet-smelling water.
Either side of Florentine stood Amy and Ina, then Anastasia, Honora, and Rosalie at the head. Bridie tended the stove.
They held hands and started to sing. Their voices, soft at first with welcomes and introductions as they assured the spirits of their intentions, harmonised as they rose in a melody that overflowed the room and sought out the chosen recipients; infusing John Bray and Clancy Dickens with courage and stealth, and with increase
