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‘Still,’ Dr Talbot says, pointed. ‘I would rather the answer came from them.’

Reluctantly Linette explains in their own tongue, but she can tell by the way both mother and son pale at the mention of an incision that their preference is for the ‘safer’ route, and she tells him so.

Dr Talbot looks at each of them in turn – Tomas, Mair, Linette. Then, with obvious reluctance, he replaces the implements in his satchel, closes it with a snap.

‘Other methods are vigorous coughing to release the mucus, bloodletting, cold bathing –’ here he picks at the pile of heavy blankets covering Tomas’ legs – ‘all to reduce the inflammation. Drinking milk and consuming fruit would also be of help. This is something that can go away on its own, but my concern is Tomas will develop pneumonia, and since he is already so weak …’

He trails off. Linette stares, feels the claw of guilt at her chest. All this time she has been helping them, sending those woollen blankets down to keep Tomas warm … it is quite possible she has made the situation worse. But how could she have known, when Dr Beddoe dismissed Tomas’ case so readily? Linette clamps the guilt down, repeats everything the doctor dictates, and on the promise she will have milk and fruit sent down to the cottage by evening she and Dr Talbot rise from the bed. The physician shakes Tomas’ hand.

‘I’ll see you again,’ he says.

Though Tomas clearly does not understand the words he recognises the sentiment behind them, and for the first time in a long time, he smiles. It is a pained and tired smile, but for Linette the sight of it is almost as good as any cure.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Linette leaves the cottage first, folds her arms tight across her chest as the sea breeze pushes firm like a salt wall. On the air she smells sand, the brine-scent of fish. The shells jangle on their strings. Behind her she hears the doctor close the cottage door, the dull thud of the latch falling into place, and she turns to him with a ‘thank you’ on her lips, but a deep frown is furrowing his forehead, the flat of his hand spread out against the deep grain of pitted wood.

‘Dr Talbot?’

‘Why do the doors have white marks on them? I noticed the miners’ houses up the way had similar marks.’

She looks at the wood, the light washing of white daubed onto it in a haphazard line.

‘It’s a local superstition,’ says Linette. ‘People here think that by whitening their houses they shut the door against the Devil. It is what Mrs Morgan meant when she said she’d made the mark too late.’ Dr Talbot stares as if he does not comprehend. ‘When she said, “Fe wnes i’r marc yn rhy hwyr”,’ Linette adds by way of explanation. ‘She thinks if she had done it sooner Tomas would not have got sick.’

There is a beat of silence. Within it Linette watches him twist the fancy of it around in his head, marks the very moment he discards her words for lunacy.

‘The Devil doesn’t exist,’ Dr Talbot says finally, hand slipping from the door. ‘To believe in such things is the mark of fools.’

‘Well, while you mightn’t believe in the Devil the people of Penhelyg do. You will gain no esteem here if you taunt the beliefs of your patients.’

‘I do not taunt,’ Dr Talbot counters, as if lecturing a child, ‘but there can be no denying the ridiculousness of such a notion. How can marking doors white possibly ward off the Devil?’

Linette shrugs. ‘White for purity, I suppose?’

‘But how is that rational?’ he persists, his face bright with the passion of a man determined to push his point. ‘Even if the Devil existed no amount of white paint could possibly make a difference.’

‘Perhaps,’ Linette counters, feeling herself grow defensive again, ‘it is not the paint that makes a difference, but the belief that it will.’

Dr Talbot stares at her from beneath the rim of his hat, dark eyes thoughtful.

There is something familiar about the way he looks at her. It is a calculating regard, one that succeeds in making her feel exposed, somehow, but then he shrugs, returns to Gwydion, and Linette lets out the breath she had not realised she was holding.

When Linette was a child, Enaid used to recite tales of magic and myth to her at bedtime. They were filled with the adventures of young farmhands and gallant knights, of mighty giants and enchanted lakes. Many tales featured wily fairy folk and their wicked deeds; how they would swap innocent children for their own, how they would fool weary travellers into a castle that disappeared once they awoke to find themselves cold and wet on the moors, or how if one were to step inside their stone circles, one would be trapped in dance for ever.

Other tales told of darker beings, much more sinister and chilling – monstrous hounds, tormented banshees, water creatures which would drag unsuspecting victims into the depths of their lairs to feast upon their drowned corpses.

To Linette’s mind, they are stories and nothing more. But there can be no denying that sometimes – just sometimes – when she has been out in the fields or woods or mountains, she has fancied to have seen a tantalising glimpse of an ellyll from the corner of her eye, or heard the mournful singing of Gwrach y Rhibyn high on the wind. Often she has seen clusters of the moss-bound rocks so favoured by the tylwyth teg and found a way around them. Just in case.

But it is clear to her there is little point in telling this plain-speaking doctor any of that.

They manoeuvre the horses across the salt marshes, back up to the narrow path. Linette points at some cottages hidden by a tall hedge, tells him of their inhabitants. (Bryn Parry is not expected to see out the summer, Bronwen Lewis has a baby just weaned, Gareth Griffiths suffers from headaches and his wife, Catrin, is prone to gout.) Henry Talbot responds to these facts in curt polite tones and, beginning to feel as though she is wasting breath, Linette presses her tongue between her teeth.

At length they reach Penhelyg’s square. Even at its busiest, the village is quiet during the daytime hours. With the majority of men working up at the mines it is the women who hold sway here; some are weavers of nets which they sell down at the docks of Abermaw, some launder, others bake, and farmers’ wives can often be found trading milk or livestock in exchange for these small commodities. Linette nods to them all in greeting, but to her dismay some of the women – women she has known all her life – fail to acknowledge her. Indeed, they appear to take great pains to ignore Linette completely and for a brief moment she cannot fathom it … until the butcher’s wife narrows her eyes at a point over Linette’s shoulder and turns heel.

Oh. She has marked who I’m with.

Linette twists in her saddle to see if he, too, understands, and it troubles her to find he does; Henry Talbot is watching Delyth Hughes’ cold retreat. Is she imagining it, this animosity? She looks about the square, spots Rhiannon and one of the Parry girls sitting now by one of the water troughs near the tavern. Keen to be sure, Linette steers Pryderi toward them, beckons Dr Talbot to follow. On their approach the girls look up, and like the others their usual friendly smiles do not come. Linette’s own smile slips from her face as she reins the horse in.