For weeks there had been almost continuous rain. Passing Horseshoe Field she spotted a sheep on its back. Weighed down by its sodden fleece it would soon die if not righted.

*Grumps, that one's farweltered!'

Trumpeter, the grey shepherd dog, bounding before him, Samuel hobbled towards the hapless creature.

Eppie still reeled from the attack on her pigs. Shortly before Wasp tore into Gillow's garden, the dog had mauled to death a sick sheep which Samuel had left in a pen separate from the flock.

Kicking stones along the road, she recalled the aftermath: Eppie and Martha watched the men prepare Slodgy's carcase.

Wakelin wiped the pig's wet bristles with a wisp of straw. *He were ready for sticking, anyhow.

**How can you speak so harshly?' his mother rebuked. *Have you no sympathy for the hog and what it went through?'

Gillow set fire to the bed of straw upon which the pig lay. *He don't know the meaning of compassion.'

*Yur, I've got sympathy,' Wakelin snapped. *Sympathy for Tom's dogs. Du Quesne forced Tom to hang them all: Gnasher, Ripper, Digger, and even old Spurt.'

*Why'd he do such a ghastly thing?' Eppie asked.

*For revenge, after Wasp scratched a hole in Tom's barn.'

*That makes no sense.'

Henry, who was lending a hand, continued the tale of Wasp's escape. *Du Quesne was in the stockyard talking to the men about culling the pigeons. Now that he's able to house and feed his cattle over the wintertime he's not so reliant on the birds' meat. His lordship said the dovecote ought to be knocked down and the stone used to extend the beast-house. Bill riled him, asking whether he and the others could take the meat home for their tables. His lordship's a bit sore on that point. Recently, there's been an increase in poaching on his land. Several deer have been taken.'

Wakelin looked shifty, purposefully avoiding Eppie's glance.

*Du Quesne was making it clear that he'd no longer deal leniently with offenders when Wasp charged across the yard and into the kitchen, where he set all the women to screaming. The dog never so much as got a lick at the venison roasting on the spit. Du Quesne's a deadeye shot.'

Eppie wandered past the entrance to Ferret Farm, which lay to the right of a bend in the lane. Beside the farm entrance was the smithy. Piled in the cobbled yard were sacks of spilt charcoal fuel and stacks of agricultural tools awaiting repair. Various tongs, hacksaws and sledgehammers hung on the wall behind the anvil. Autumn being the usual time for ditching, the blacksmith was busy shodding a willow spade with iron strips.

Soon she approached the church. Cropped by sheep, the grass felt soft and springy as she stepped solemnly past Aunt Zelda's ivy-strangled grave, and headed towards the ancient yew with its split trunk. Here, at the back of the graveyard, lay Martha's babies, buried in one grave. Nearby was the headstone of Martha's mother. With her finger, Eppie traced the name Euphemia. She liked sharing the name. It gave her a sense of connection with the past.

Her hands clasped behind her back, she trod towards the oak door. Over it, angels were carved into an arch, trees appearing to sprout from their heads. Enchantment awaited Eppie whenever she chanced to find herself alone in the church; it felt as though she were in direct communication with God. Shafts of sunlight streaked through the stained-glass windows, casting a reflected myriad of pastel hues upon her white frock.

Behind her the door grated open. She span around with a smile upon her lips, imagining Gabriel to have arrived. Realising her mistake she dived, soundlessly, into a box pew. Blinkinsopp, the sexton, had clearly been in the process of cleaning, for upon the seat was a greasy rag and an uncorked jar of polish.

Her first thought was how scandalous it was to be crouching in the box reserved for the du Quesne family. The poor churchgoers congregated upon the rows of benches. She never minded because, sitting at the aisle end of the seventh row, she would lovingly run her fingers over the curvy tail on the carving of a field mouse.

Her second thought was why she was hiding from Wakelin? The answer was simple - because it was odd to see him in church. Despite being pestered by Gillow and Martha, he rarely attended. *So why is he here now?' she wondered.

Studded boot soles clicked on stone as he passed, close.

She waited an age, or so it seemed, breathing in the musty smell of hassocks stacked on the floor. Bored, she rose cautiously to her knees and peered around. Failing to see him, she assumed he must have left by the door that led to the vestry. She was about to step out when she spotted a figure behind the decorative wood panelling, standing amongst the du Quesne tombs. She craned her neck to get a better view.

Wakelin was making drunken, blubbering sounds. He seemed to be talking to himself. As though he had been stabbed in the back, he slumped over a chest tomb, sobbing.

*What do you think you're up to?' Thurstan's voice echoed around the hammer-beam rafters.

Eppie's heart leapt. Instinctively plummeting, she accidentally knocked over the jar containing Slick's Finest Lick, Lubrication of Quality. In alarm, she chewed Elizabeth's club-hand, watching the rancid, glutinous liquid, interspersed with nodules of beeswax, wend its way over the bench.

The sound of a scuffle filled the church, followed by Wakelin's cry, *Tek yer filthy hands off me, ya scum!'

Manhandling Wakelin along the nave, Thurstan called to someone, *I caught this drivelling pustule making off with manorial church treasures.' To which Wakelin protested in his ugly, swearing voice.

Eppie was relieved at not having been spotted, but was also filled with sorrow for Wakelin.

Baffled, longing to know what he had been up to, she stood up and gazed at the tombs.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Gabriel grinned. *I didn't mean to make you jump. Your brother must be impossibly drunk, mistaking the church for the parlour of The Fat Duck.'

*I've slapped this sticky stuff over your bench,' she said, filled with shame.

He peered over. *It looks like the chewed mouse my cat cast over father's tome of Alchemy for Poore Beasts. I'd left the book on my desk to look up a reference. When father tried to turn the pages, he found they'd stuck together. I told him that I'd placed my chocolate drink upon it and it had tipped over. When he asked me to account for the fur and bones I was stumped. He guessed Prince Ferdinand was to blame and demanded that I confine my cat to the scullery. Before the doctor arrives, I'll show you my great-great-grandfather's tomb.

*This is his, with the statue of the knight on top. Resting with his feet on the lion shows he died in battle.

*Mother has a morbid fear of the tombs. That's why she never attends church, preferring private services at home with Parson Lowford. She is terrified that Doctor Burndread will declare her dead when she isn't. Waking in her coffin, she'll bang and scratch on the lid. Nobody will hear her.'

Eppie stroked the ears of a stone kitten curled at the foot of an alabaster carving of a baby girl. *I like this one best. It's the tomb Wakelin fell over.'

*What do you mean? This is Genevieve's ... '

Behind them came the sound of quick tapping shoes. *Forgive my lateness, Master Gabriel,' said the wigged, black-suited tutor. *I was detained trying, in vain, to stop a scuffle between your cousin and a coarsely-spoken lout disguised in liquor. What are you doing back here?'

*I was, umm, admiring the weepers.' With the tip of his flute, Gabriel gently tapped a kneeling figure, meant to represent a mourner, on the top of its head. *They're a pretty sorrowful bunch.'

The physician pointed to a miniature oil painting, his fat finger shaking. *Also note this picture representing peasants working in your father's fields. Most of your father's labourers are illiterate so such images help them to understand the teachings of the Bible.'

Hector Lowford joined them. *And God willing, it is to be hoped that I will soon be able to rectify the labourers' deficiency of knowledge, although his lordship seems disgruntled about my notion of organising a vestry school, being of the opinion that there is little to praise in the idea of lessening the ignorance of the lower classes.'

*Father and Thurstan believe it is wrong to meddle with what they call the natural course of things. They think that workers must know their lowly station in life and be obedient to their masters.'

The parson looked as ruffled as the frills on his white cravat. *And what is your view, Master Gabriel?'

*I believe the school to be a most commendable notion, sir.'

*I am pleased, at least, for your support. And you, Eppie Dunham? Do you think that my benevolent venture will be welcomed by the village children?'

Feeling foolish at having so easily given away her hiding place, she sidled out from behind the stone kitten, and nodded in agreement.

*I cannot imagine what is keeping the itinerate musicians,' Doctor Burndread said, glancing at the door. *We had better make a start.'

Whilst Gabriel played, Eppie closed her eyes, imagining she was a star quivering in the blue night sky.

Finally, the velvety notes drifted away.

*Stupendous!' cried the parson, clapping ecstatically. *Would you not agree, Doctor Burndread?'

The tutor nodded seriously like a judge. *You have an exceptional talent, Master Gabriel. Such spirited resonance do you lend to the instrument that I find myself quite transported by the dulcet notes.'

Eppie's eyes shone in gratitude at the men's kindly words. Her rapture was short-lived.

Clad in riding attire, Robert du Quesne marched up the aisle. He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. *Carry on. I have a matter to discuss with Lowford regarding this ridiculous school.' Spotting Eppie, his wrath amplified. *Strawhead, you are fast becoming the bane of my life.'

She shuffled uncomfortably. *Sorry, sir, I don't mean to be a pain, thing, sir.'

He pointed to the door.

*The child is doing no harm. Surely she may listen?' the parson asked.

The expression on du Quesne's face was enough to provide the answer.

Clutching Elizabeth, she trod gloomily away.

An air of stern rigidity was in du Quesne's voice. *Whilst I am here I might as well listen to you play, boy. Get on. I have no time to waste.'

Filled with a blithe spirit, Eppie glanced around. Du Quesne stood in the aisle, his back to her, hands on hips. Opening the door a crack, she put all her weight behind it and slammed it. The boom echoed through the church. The parson shrieked in surprise. Du Quesne glared toward the disturbance, but by then Eppie had scurried into a shadowy corner.

Gabriel's music sounded torpid and emotionless. Every now and then his gaze drifted from the score as he nervously eyed his father. In his trepidation he forgot where he was up to, stopped, and restarted the melody.

Quaking with fury, his father cried, *Keep your mind on what you're doing, and stand up straight, boy.'

Seeing him throw back the door to the box pew, Eppie gasped in horrified anticipation.

*I shall remain until I hear you apply yourself to the instrument in a proficient ... what the!' Staggering into the aisle, he performed an undignified twirl in an attempt to discover what was sticking to his behind. Gobbets of Slick's Finest Lick plopped around his feet.

With all the kafuffle, Eppie forgot that she was supposed to be in hiding and trotted forwards, interested.

Du Quesne's cream breeches sagged with the orange gelatinous mess. It looked not unlike the witch's butter fungi that she and Gabriel had seen swelling on a decomposing log. She stuffed her mitten into her mouth in a vain attempt to mask her giggles.

Chicken-legged, du Quesne squelched towards her. *You!'

She backed off, wrinkling her nose against the rancid whiff.

*By the deuce, if you were any daughter of mine I would give you such a thrashing that you would not be able to sit down for a year.'

Hooting and guffawing filled the church. The look of anger that du Quesne had bestowed upon Eppie was transferred to the tipsy musicians and singers, whose members had arrived for their rehearsal, fresh from The Duck.

The black-whiskered oboe player appeared less adept than his friends at holding his ale. Swaying, his flickering eyes watering, he exclaimed, *'ere, there's some kind of sticky ooze on yer keel.' He blew out his flushed cheeks. *It dain't *alf pong.'

Outraged by the peals of laughter at his expense, du Quesne glowered at the capering musician. *How dare you speak to me in this impudent manner? Don't you know who I am?'

*Carse I do's, yer Lard duck Queer-fleas.'

*Mr Gyrie!' the parson exclaimed in despair. *You are inebriated.'

*Nah, ya can't fool me there, pars'n,' the jolly violinist replied. *I knows a'm in church.'

With all the merrymaking, Eppie's fears thawed. Gradually, she became aware of Gabriel agitatedly waving his musical score, indicating that she had better take her chance to run. Flying round, she almost smacked straight into Thurstan.

*Don't stand there like a stuffed baboon,' du Quesne bellowed at his nephew. *After her!'

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A FEEBLE WEAPON WITHOUT A THRUST.

In the hedgerows, flocks of linnets sang. For once, Eppie gave them no heed. Scanning the hedge, she longed to find somewhere to lie low to give Thurstan the slip. Beyond the ditch, hawthorns spanned field boundaries. In summer they provided ideal hiding places. Now, bare of leaves and peppered with holes, they were useless for concealment.

Pelting past the rake-maker's yard, a stitch in her side forced her to a walking pace.

A wagon, loaded with chained oak trunks, rumbled towards her. She staggered onto the grass verge to avoid it.

Pippa Parker was slumped over Ferret Farm gate, her lank hair dripping in greasy coils. In the cold wind, bruises upon her face appeared orange-mauve. Chewing a fingernail, she stared inquisitively from beneath bony eyebrows. *Waz up with *ee, Eppie Dunham? Ya look frayed at edges.'

*Someone's hunting me.'

Pip peered down the lane. *Thicky Thurstan's heading this way on Bullet. Have ya done summat bad?'

*I've slimed his Lordship's breeches.'

*Good on ya! I'll hide ya, but I'll want summat for it.'

Weary almost to the point of exhaustion, Eppie consented to the demand. Crouched low, she scuttled towards the gate.

Pip shoved her towards a lead coffin that served as a horse trough.

Eppie gaped in dismay at the hoof-raked muddy puddles.

*Can you think of anywhere better?' Pip asked indignantly.

Surveying the expanse of meadow where scrawny horses grazed on the few remaining grassy tussocks, Eppie realised she had no choice.

Shoving Elizabeth inside her cloak, she cowered in the mud. Iciness oozed through her stockings.

Pip tossed a filthy horse feed sack over her, blotting out the dipping sun.

Thurstan drew rein. *You there, Pippa Parker, the blacksmith says he saw you speaking to Eppie Dunham.'

*I ask ya, when do I get time to stand around rattling on to folk, sir?'