Valmarie's kitchen smells of some bitter plant. There's herbs hanging upside down from the beams of the ceiling. Jars stacked along the shelves. One of them is labelled 'Mad Honey - Rhododendron Bees', another has straggly leaves and white flowers tangled inside it and the label says 'Hemlock'. Another says 'Valerian, high concentrate'. I step back and bump into a table where a candle flickers. A root lies on a chopping board, sliced in half. The top half is like a screaming baby's head, but the bottom is the stump of a wizened old man's body.