“Good morning” he shouted, hoping that injecting the ordinary would ease the disquiet which was beginning to to take hold of him. Her head turned slightly in response as if she had heard, but her face remained as empty as it had before. By now Jam, was becoming frightened. He quickly gathered his things and took leave of the girl and the river.

He described the scene to Francis who had regathered their packs – still remarkably dry in many places.

“Was she washing? Fetching water?”

“Neither – she was just standing.”

“Perhaps lost and confused? More than a little frightened after a night spent outdoors?”

“Yes. No – her clothes, they were dry. Worn and unkempt, yes, but dry. There is no way she was outdoors last night.”

“Was she hurt? Perhaps waylaid? Unlikely in these parts, but it has happened.”

“No – she showed no injury. Do you think . . . is it . . . can she be a witch?”

“She just might be. But true witches aren’t the witches your Grandma scared you with. You needn’t be frightened.”