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and when she was through my mother clasped both her hands and appeared, for a moment, unable to speak. On the journey home I felt at peace, and that night I slept easily for the first time in many weeks. But after a fortnight of relative calm, the dreams returned.
    This time she took me to a clergyman. Reverend Wickley presided over services at the Great House chapel, which served as church for our small parish. He hailed from the north and spoke with a strange accent, and had traveled the length and breadth ofthe kingdom before taking orders. It was said he’d been a peddler in his previous life, and that he’d been married more than once, though these were only rumors. He married a yeoman’s daughter soon after settling in our village, but his unfortunate wife died in childbirth within a twelvemonth. Shortly afterward, he retained a young serving woman from a neighboring village, who some said was more than generous in her provision, but as she rarely went out and had no family to speak of, the matter was soon forgotten. I saw her briefly in the yard the day we went to visit him, but when I asked my mother about her afterward, she shrugged and said the girl was in God’s service. Some years after, the girl in question disappeared and was never heard of again; it was rumored she was with child and had run away to London.
    I was twelve when my mother took me to see Reverend Wickley, and although I had often heard him preach, I always found his presence menacing. He was tall and dark and of an unusually good complexion, having evaded scarring by the pox, and was robust in his bearing, though his teeth were black and broken. It was clear that many of those in the congregation found his visage pleasing, and I was not very advanced in age before I perceived that women outnumbered men in attendance at holy service by several number. My mother, as always, was immune to such considerations, and was reverent without being devout.
    It was nearly midsummer when we went to see him, and our days and nights had been overtaken by the heat. I had slept badly for a fortnight, waking often in a sweat and crying out while I slept, and my mother was growing increasingly uneasy. For my own part, the dreams did not trouble me overly: although I often woke during the night in an agitated state, by dawn I had usually fallen into the deepest of slumbers, so much so that my mother had to rouse me vigorously in the mornings. Rather than agitated I was somewhat enervated by day, but even this my mother took to be a sign that something was amiss, either in my body or my soul.
    So it was we found ourselves on Reverend Wickley’s threshold one blistering day. His look on seeing us was one of mild surprise: my mother was not overly religious, and I do not think she had ever undertaken a private consultation with him before, outside of her official capacity as midwife. And although she’d been determined to seek his advice, once again overcoming my objections, when we finally stood face-to-face with him, she appeared decidedly uncomfortable. Sensing her unease, the reverend ushered us inside and led her to a chair.
    “My good woman, pray be seated,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her to a chair. “Your color is not well.”
    Indeed her color was not well, for it was the first time I could ever recall seeing her touch, or be touched, by a male personage, be he peasant or parson. And though he took her hand but momentarily, I perceived her recoil slightly, and it was clear to me (though not to him) that this had unsettled her more than the original purpose of our visit. I remained still until he turned to me and extended his hand, whereupon I bolted for the only other chair in the room, thus avoiding unsettling her any further. After a moment she regained her color and began to address him haltingly, telling him of my dreams, or visions as she called them, and of my inability to rouse at dawn, and of my general lethargy by day.
    He