The door swung open at his touch and he had a strange feeling that somehow it was inviting him inside. Behind it was a spiral staircase, leading up to the church spire perhaps? He glanced over his shoulder. On the other side of the pews, his mother was studying some old painting of a man with a ruffled collar. She probably would not mind if he just nipped up to the top and back again.

He left the door open and ran up the stairs. After a short while he had to slow down, the stairs were rather steep and the steps were too high for him. At least he did not have to force Bacon up all these stairs.

‘Baaah!’

He looked up. There was a black lamb on the stairs above him.

‘Hello,’ he went up beside the lamb and stroked its soft wool, ‘you look a bit like mareep.’

‘baah…’ it said.

‘Where did you get to?’ said a woman’s voice from up the stairs. He considered running, perhaps he was not even allowed to be here, but the voice sounded soft and warm, like the lamb’s wool. So he stood still, waiting, until a woman with long curly hair gathered together in a ponytail showed up. She looked much younger than his mother, but still like a grown up. She had a crooked smile on her lips.

‘Hello,’ she said, ‘how did you get in?’

‘Door,’ he pointed down the stairs.

‘It opened for you?’ she shook her head, ‘silly question, of course it did, or you would not be here.’ She went down the last couple of steps, her long black dress rustling, and picked up the lamb. ‘Gotcha, and I won’t let you get away again,’ she scratched the lamb behind the ears the way that Bacon liked.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘You can call me Cynthia if you wish,’ she turned back up the stairs.

‘Where are you going?’ he said.

‘Up the stairs.’

He looked down the stairs, would his mother be worried? Nah, he had not been gone long. He followed Cynthia up the stairs.

They soon reached an open door which led into a large room with a large black cauldron and all manner of herbs and dried things along the walls.

‘If you’re coming in, would you close the door behind you?’ said Cynthia.

He closed the door. Looking out of the window he could see to the edge of town.

‘Wow, we’re high up.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ said Cynthia as she rummaged around in a corner, the lamb still on her arm.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Ah, here it is,’ she pulled out a long curved knife and he felt his heartbeat quicken as he backed up against the door.

‘Wh-what’s, what’re…’ he stammered.

‘The blood of a black she-lamb, for protection, and of course, a girl has to eat,’ she smiled wide and drew the blade across the throat of the lamb. Dark blood spilled out over her hands and he grabbed the door handle.

‘Wait!’ her fingers, warm and sticky closed about his wrist. He twisted his neck to look up at her face where he was surprised to find an expression his mother always had when she told him to be careful.

‘For protection,’ she dragged two wet fingers across his forehead; they left a flaring pain in their wake as if his skin was on fire. Then everything went black.

When he woke, he sat with his back against the door to the stairs and his mother was kneeling in from of him.

‘Was it really that boring?’ she asked, ‘come, we’ll go find some lunch.’

He staggered to his feet, his forehead still burning.