Each morning Alice made the same journey from her father’s cottage in the village to the bakery. There she bartered for a loaf with whatever had grown in their garden, be it vegetable, herb, or fruit. When times were lean, in frost and snow, she offered the things she did not wish to: her fingers. Many a time she had kneaded at the bakery shaping loaves and cobs, and soothing backs and shoulders. But sometimes, when her father was at his worst, she gave more still.

She had had the gift since birth and seen her mother’s demise as she curled up to sleep at her breast, milk weary. She could see a person’s life through their heart; her fingers would need only meet with the chest to know. As she grew, she learned to see more: the twin enemies of truth and lies; a person’s truest desire; something she presumed was love. She knew a lie could rob her of her gift, but nobody really wanted to hear the truth.

Most of the village ignored her, unless they wanted something. It was many years since she had been known simply as the daughter of Richard, the lame gardener, and not as a witch or troublemaker. Only her father still called her Alice, and Solomon, the son of the lord of the manor. He had never once called her names, and never once asked her to seek what was hidden.