Richard Stoney handed the reins of his father’s horses to the stable lad. Mrs. Wheatley carefully put her cake on the wagon floor and climbed down from the tailgate.

“I don’t know their ale is that fine,” she said quietly to Alinor. “I don’t think Sir William needs to leave home to drink good ale.”

“Course he doesn’t,” Alinor replied loyally, hardly knowing what she was saying. “But I’m glad Mrs. Miller is drinking a toast to Alys. She works her so hard!”

“A smoky kitchen,” Mrs. Wheatley whispered, using the old description of a shrewish housewife.

Alinor smiled. She could feel the child move in her belly and for a moment she leaned against the doorframe and thought how weary she was, and what a long day stretched before her.

“You all right?” Mrs. Wheatley asked.

“Oh, yes,” Alinor said brightly. “I’m happy for Alys; but it’s been a strain, you know?”

The two of them went into the kitchen and through to the parlor where previously Alinor had only been before to clean and polish. But today the parlor was open, and the wedding party were invited guests. The round wooden table was set with glasses and biscuits, and Mrs. Miller was wearing her best apron and white cap. Mr. Miller warmed the ale at the fireside and Jane poured a small cup for everyone. “Where is Peter?” Alinor asked Jane.

“Gone to play with the Smith boys,” she said.

“Here’s to the health of the bride, the new Mrs. Stoney!” Mr. Miller said, holding up his pewter mug. “And to the happiness of the young couple.”

“Here’s health!” everyone replied, raising their glasses. “Health and happiness!”

Alys, her hand resting on Richard’s arm, smiled at everyone. “Thank you,” she said.

“God bless us all,” Richard added.

Mr. Miller, excited at having the floor to himself, as Mrs. Miller went out to the kitchen, was about to say more. “I well recall my own wedding day . . . ,” he started when there was a sudden loud scream from the kitchen.

“Thieves, thieves,” Mrs. Miller was shouting. “Thieves in my—”

She burst into the parlor, Jane’s red leather dowry purse in her hand, her fingers sooty from the chimney bricks, her face blanched with shock.

“God save us,” Mrs. Wheatley said. “Sit down, Mrs. Miller. Sit down. What’s wrong?”

Mrs. Miller pushed her aside. “Look!” she said, holding out the purse. “Look!”

“What’s this, my dear?” Mr. Miller said. “Surely not . . .”

“My savings purse,” Mrs. Miller gabbled. “Jane’s dowry money. I got it out just now to give the girl a half crown for her wedding day. Not that I owe her a penny. But I meant to give her a gift, for her wedding day . . . and—”

“Never tell me you’ve been robbed!” her husband demanded.

In answer she shook the purse at him. There was a reassuring clink of coins, there was a weight to the purse. It was clearly full of coins.

“You’re not short,” he argued. He took it from her hand and weighed it. “There’ll be forty, perhaps fifty, pounds in there,” he said. “I can tell from the weight and the chink of the coins. You get to know—”

“I’ve not been robbed,” she said furiously. “Not robbed. I would rather have been robbed than this . . . I’ve been bewitched.”

There was a hiss of superstitious fear from everyone in the little parlor.

“What?” Mr. Miller asked.

“What?” Mrs. Wheatley echoed. “Here, Mrs. Miller, sit down. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Mrs. Wheatley helped Mrs. Miller into a chair. Alinor came forward and felt her forehead for the flush of fever, and caught a sideways glance from Alys. The bride was as white as if she had seen a ghost. Her lips parted, she turned as if to speak to her mother but she said nothing.

Alinor felt herself grow terribly cold. Her hand dropped from Mrs. Miller’s forehead. “What’s happened?” she said quietly. “What’s happened, Mrs. Miller?”

“Ma . . .” Alys whispered.

Without saying another word, Mrs. Miller snatched the purse from her husband’s hand and opened the neck of the purse. “See this? Look what’s in here! Look at it. I’ll show you!” She gestured towards Alinor, who unthinkingly cupped her hands and Mrs. Miller poured out the contents of the purse. The coins were hot from their hiding place, and strangely light. Alinor held two handfuls of faerie gold, the shaved and chipped coins that she liked to collect, the lost currency of the old ones, the ancient coins of the Saxon shore. Inside the purse they had chinked like coins, weighed like coins, but here, spilled into Alinor’s hands, they were clearly counterfeit. With her hands filled with her own collection of coins, Alinor looked across at the blank horror of her daughter’s face, and knew at once what she had done.

“Faerie gold,” Mrs. Miller said fearfully. “In my house. Changeling treasure. I had a purse here of good gold and silver, Jane’s dowry. I rarely touch it. I keep it safe in my chim—in my hiding place. And some witch has exchanged my savings for faerie gold. So that I wouldn’t know anything was missing! If I took it out and weighed it in my hands I would think all was well. I’ve been enchanted, and I didn’t even know. Some witch has taken it all. All my money!”

“If I said once, I’ve said a hundred times: it was a stupid hiding place,” Mr. Miller started.

“What about the chest?” She turned on him. “The chest under the bed?”

He blanched and spun on his heel and tore from the room. They could hear his heavy feet pounding up the stair to the bedroom, the creak of the bedroom door, the two swift steps across the wooden floor, and then the noise of the chest being dragged out from under the bed.

Alinor, her hands filled with faerie gold, stood as still as everyone else and listened.

“God save us, God spare us,” Mrs. Miller whispered into the silent room. “That’s all that we have in the world. We’ll be ruined if that’s bewitched too.”

They could hear him fumbling with the keys and then the creak of the lid. They could hear his sigh of relief and the chink of coins being stirred. Then they heard him slam down the lid, lock up, and come slowly down the stairs, putting the keys in his waistcoat pocket.

“Thank God it’s there,” he said, gray-faced in the doorway. “The tide-mill money is safe. It’s your savings that have gone. Jane’s dowry. How much was there?”

Even in the grip of terrible loss Mrs. Miller was not going to tell her husband how much she had put away over the years. “Pounds, I had,” Mrs. Miller said viciously. “More than forty pounds. How am I going to get it back from a witch?”

“Could be a passing thief,” Mrs. Wheatley ventured. “Someone from the yard?”

“What thief leaves handfuls of faerie gold? Nobody has come in here; nobody knows where I hide my money. It’s a witch. It’s got to be a witch. She’s magicked away my savings and left me hers in exchange. This is witch money. This is witch work.”

The room was silent. The silence thickened, curdled. Slowly, as slowly as a thought dawning, everyone turned to Alinor. Everyone looked at Alinor, who had worked for Mrs. Miller ever since she was a girl, who was known as a cunning woman with skills not of this world. Alinor, who needed gold for her daughter’s dowry, her son’s apprenticeship, who was said by her own husband to whore for faerie lords. Slowly, everyone looked at Alinor, where she stood, her face very pale, her hands filled with faerie gold.