Once there, Heather is transfixed by the enormous cauldron, big enough for both of us to bathe in. She stares at the plucked bodies of partridges, resting on the counter beside dough rolled out for a pie.
I go over to the glass jars of herbs and draw out a few rowan berries. I take out a thick thread for sewing stuffing inside hens, and I use that and a bit of cheesecloth to make her a small knot of them.
“Put this in your pocket or in your b*a,” I tell her. “Keep it on you while you’re here.”
“And this will keep me safe?” Heather asks.
“Safer,” I say, sewing her up a bag of salt. “Sprinkle this on whatever you eat. Don’t forget.”
“Thank you.” She takes my arm, giving it a quick squeeze. “I mean, this doesn’t feel real. I know that must sound ridiculous. I’m standing in front of you.
