Carmen skips back across the meadow not too long before midnight. A stack of Honora's raspberry pancakes and a small container of elderflower syrup are folded into a clean, red-checked tea towel that she swings from one finger.

''Imma shootin' star leapin' through the skyyyyy defyin' the laws o' graviteee,'' she sings to herself. ''Imma racin' car passin' byyyy like lady Godiva.... somefin', somefin', 'cause I'm havin' a good time, havin' a good time....'' She sighs. It really would have been nice if they have managed to contact the spirit of Freddy Mercury.

But it had still been a super fun night. She's glad she decided to stop by at Bishop's End that evening to see what everyone was doing, even though she knew that Maya wouldn't be around.

After Truman left, Felicity had watered down the cider to safer active levels and they had sipped the less-noxious brew carefully, Carmen and Maya helping the adults as they worked on handmade gifts for the hand-fasting celebration of some friends.

Honora was cutting squares for a patchwork quilt and embroidering spells onto select pieces and Felicity was hand-painting a set of dinnerware with some dubious forest scenes involving nymphs and satyrs. Berenice had drunk rather more of the cider than anyone else and launched into a long-winded, slurringly-hypnotic recital of epic poetry.

The performance, if it could even be called that, was bad enough on its own but it was worsened by George blowing disgruntled raspberries in punctuation. He was still peeved that his view of Maya kissing Truman in the henhouse had been "obscured by a chicken. I mean a bloody chicken of all things!'' and he was only placated when Maya promised him a repeat performance, in full view, on the porch if at all possible.

Berenice hadn't quite made it through her complete rendition of Merlin and Vivien when Honora leapt up from her seat declaring, ''Ok, I think that's about enough then, love.'' She shepherded the staggering Berry over to the sofa where she collapsed face-first in a snoring heap.

The cider seemed to have made Felicity's tongue loose as well and she had regaled the girls with the story of how she had once accidentally forgotten a pair of underwear in the natural history museum, and when someone found them hanging from the neck vertebrae of "Dippy" the diplodocus the following day it had headlined in the the paper as "The mystery of the dinosaur knickers".

''No one could understand how they could have gotten up there,'' she giggled, sloshing a bit of cider out of her glass. ''But I don't blame them, I don't fully understand the things that man was capable of either...'' she sighed, hiccupped and looked wistful.

Even Maya, who is not prone to episodes of exposition, stayed up with Carmen well after the others had gone to bed, whispering the story of the party and the henhouse to her friend in starry-eyed confession.

Carmen can see the lights still on in the sitting-room and she is eager to tell her mother some of the night's events. She hasn't mentioned the Winthrop family to Carol at all so far, uncertain how her mother will take the news that her daughter had been spending so much time with a family of witches. But things at home have been so much better recently. Her mum even helped her dye her hair this pretty shade of ''carmen'' yesterday evening. It turned out rather well, she thinks.

''Mam,'' she calls, flinging open the front door and waving her kerchief full of pancakes in the air. ''I've brought ye a snack, see? 'S pancakes from me friend Maya's house. They taste bangin' 'n all.'' The sight of her mother lying on the floor, tapers her forward motion to a stuttering halt. Her mother's body is bent at an unusual angle, her skin pale and clammy and tell-tale blisters are forming on her lips.

A sound in the kitchen makes Carmen look up, eyes huge and terrified. Len is lounging against the doorframe, fishing a large gherkin out of a briny jar with two fingers. He bites into the pickle with an exaggerated crunch and then smacks his lips.

'''Ello, Carmie,'' his voice is as smooth as an oil spill on dirty tarmac. ''I was wai'in for you to come 'ome. We have some business to discuss you and I.''

Carmen drops her package of pancakes where she stands. It falls to the floor with a dull thud, the syrup container flipping open and leaking onto the tiles like sticky, dark blood.

''Is me mam ok?'' she asks. ''She in't had a seizure 'as she, Len? LEN? Do we need to ge' 'er to the 'ospital?'' Groping for her mother's wrist she takes the weak but regular pulse, like she has so many times before.

''Relax, luv. I ain't gonna compromise my investment like that, am I? Yer mum is fine. She's fine at the moment, yeh? But I can't promise it's gonna stay that way, innit? She owes me a lot of cash, yer mum does. Owes the people I work for a lot of cash and another blowjob ain't enough no more.''

''She's got money though, Len. She's bin workin'. Did you ask 'er?'' Carmen's pulse is racing.

Carefully, Len places the open pickle jar onto the cabinets behind him in the kitchen. He cups his hand, extends a pitted tongue and delicately licks a trickle of vinegar from the side of his ring finger and down his wrist. Then he wipes his hands on the back of his jeans and takes a wad of twenty-pound notes from his pocket.

''Yeh I found this,'' he frowns, flipping through the money, a series of purple and black Queen Elizabeths smiling vacantly in Carmen's direction. ''But we are talkin' months back of product, yeh? I'll take this lot, of course, but it ain't gonna cut it, this.'' Carmen watches him packing the food money back into his pants; feels the emptiness within her burn.

''But you a good girl, ain't you Carmie? A good dau'er? And lucky for yous that business proposal I mentioned is still available, yeh? I'm a city boy, luv. Bin' flat-roofin' out here in the countryside for too long. Spreadin' meself too thin, right? I just need someone I can trust to help out with a couple deliveries now and then.''

Carmen stands frozen among the ruined pancakes. Her arms are empty and her eyes dead. She stares at Len in icy silence.

''I don' want to run for ye, Len. I told ye already.''

''That's awright then, Carmie sweetheart. No one is makin' you do anything you don't want to do, yeh? I's just tryna help you is all. But I got no uvver choice now, do I? These people yer muvver owes money to – we talking the real kingpin, yeh? I won' mess wif them meself. Nuffing I can do to help out ol' Carol then, is there?''

''So, what d'ye need me fer? Ask her to do yer running for ye then? She already so deep in over 'er 'ead.'' It's a terrifying prospect, but less than the thought of her mother losing a couple of fingers to a debt collector.

''This bag of shit?'' Len sidles over to where Carol is lying and shunts her body gently with the toe of his boot. ''Coppers already know what she's about, don' they? You they won' see comin' if ye jus make yeself a little bit pretty and presen'able like.''

Carol groans and rolls over onto her back, mashing her lips together as she tastes the dryness of her mouth.

''Mam?'' Carmen kneels beside her. She reaches out gently and touches her mother's sweaty face, tracing her finger gently up into her hairline and tenderly running her hand through Carol's matted hair like a comb. ''You're ok then, Mam. You're gonna be fine, I swear. I'll take care of you. I promise. I brought you pancakes 'n everyfing, see. They 'ad elderflowah syrup. I'll fix em up for you in the mornin' when you are feelin' better. Mebbe they'll 'elp 'n all.''

''That's right, Carmie.'' Len is standing over them, ''I knew you would do the right thing.'' He walks over to the dining table where his gear is setup again. Unzipping a navy sports bag, he fumbles amongst various wrappings and baggies till he finds a small, cheap cellphone.

As he walks over to her his heel grinds one of the pancakes into the floor and he walks a trail of sticky boot-prints in her direction.

''You jus' hang on to this then, yeh? 'n keep it charged. I'll let you know when and where you need to be. Simple, see?'' He drops the phone in her lap and then stands back looking at her. ''I knew you were a good girl, Carmie. I could tell right the first time I saw you. And now yer not covered in chorbs no more yer even lookin' quite pretty.''

He pulls out the stash of notes again and flicks through them, drawing out an appropriate number of notes and letting them fall on her like snow. ''That's fer ye train fare and fer you to buy yerself something decent to wear, alright?'' He walks back to the table and starts packing his gear into the sports bag. At least he won't be staying.

''Oh, and Carmie?'' he points down to the streaks of syrup he has spread about the living-room floor. ''Clean up this shit, won't you? It's disgusting.''