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true.’
    ‘No,’ I said. ‘It honestly can’t be.’ Flustered, I tried to make Mercy swap places with me.
    ‘Stop it!’ she cried.
    Shaking me off, she ducked through the crowd. Isaac let go of me. I rushed after my friend – my best friend. ‘Mercy! Wait a minute!’
    Isaac called out too. ‘Awww, come on now, Mercy! Don’t take on. I was only joking.’
    Our cries fell on deaf ears. Without a backwards glance, Mercy struck out across the field.
    ‘It’s only a game, Mercy. Come on!’ I yelled.
    She was heading for the field gate; I could just about see the pale grey of her shawl glowing in the darkness. Behind me, Isaac’s voice grew fainter and crosser. ‘Don’t listen, then. See if I care, Mercy Matthews.’
    Mercy didn’t stop. Once through the gate, she went straight down the lane to the churchyard, which wasthe quickest route home. I lost sight of her after that. And by the time I reached the field gate, I felt proper dismal. Mercy didn’t honestly think I liked Isaac, did she? It was only a stupid village tradition.
    Up ahead, the church clock chimed midnight. I didn’t fancy taking the shortcut through the churchyard with only the light of the comet to guide me. The trees overhead were stark and bare, their shadows as spindly as a dead woman’s fingers. So I took the long way home, through the centre of Sweepfield past the village green. Lost to my sorrows, I didn’t hear footsteps behind me. A hand fell heavy on my shoulder. I spun round so fast, my heart stopped.
    ‘Shhhh! It’s me! Don’t scream!’
    Mercy stood before me. I half gasped, half laughed with relief.
    ‘We mustn’t quarrel over that stupid boy …’ I stopped.
    Mercy wasn’t angry, I realised. Her face had gone as pale as her shawl. A chill passed right through me.
    ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ I said.
    She took both my hands. Her fingers were freezing cold. ‘I’ve just seen something awful in the churchyard.’
    ‘What, Isaac Blake?’
    She didn’t laugh. Nor did I.
    ‘I saw your mam, Lizzie. And I think I saw you too.’
    I snatched my hands from hers.
    ‘That’s a mean trick to play,’ I said. ‘Are you getting back at me over Isaac?’
    ‘No! Honest!’
    Something in her look made me believe her. I knew the superstition as well as she did. Pass by a church at midnight on Midwinter’s Eve and you’d see entering it the souls of those who’d face death within the year. Those who came out again would survive. And those who didn’t …
    ‘It’s a stupid tradition,’ I said, quickly. ‘Just like that blindfold game. You mustn’t believe it, because it doesn’t mean a thing. Anyway, Mam and me – we both came out again, didn’t we?’
    Mercy put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, Lizzie,’ she said, and started to cry.

7
    You only had to look at Mam to see she was as strong as a bull. Anyone with any sense knew that Mercy’s vision was just an old myth, as daft as that game that had me and Isaac Blake paired for life. The best thing I could do was to forget about it. And for a while, I almost did.
    As the old year died and 1816 arrived, it brought the most dismal weather I’d ever known. Rain fell for weeks on end. It blew down our chimney, leaked through our thatched roof, and made each walk to the field to feed the livestock like swimming in a river of brown soup. As usual, Sweepfield folks were keen to find something to blame. Everything of late had been the fault of the comet, and so was the case with our weather.
    One soggy February morning, we were in our kitchen about to eat. We’d already been out to feed the pigs in our orchard, and our wet boots andstockings hung steaming before the fire. The work wasn’t over yet, though. There were still the cattle to do that grazed land further down Crockers Lane. As it was such a heck of a job in this weather, Da had promised to help.
    ‘Breakfast first,’ Mam insisted.
    She cooked oatmeal in our smallest pan: the other, bigger ones sat on the floor