Witch Hunt (Witch Finder 2) (21 page)

Money
and
a place to stay. It was almost too much. Her tiredness lifted like a fog rolling back.

‘Well done.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, feeling his short beard soft and rough beneath her lips.

‘What was that for?’

‘Nothing.’

They stood in the winter sun, smiling at each other, with Brimstone nibbling the frosted grass at their feet, and Rosa felt herself smile and her heart lift.

‘Nothing. Just you.’

The sky was darkening to lemon, the smith had gone home to his wife, but Luke was still down in the forge, tinkering, tidying up. She could hear him whistling, the tune filtering up through the little window beneath the eaves. She smiled, hearing his happiness, feeling the warmth from the smithy chimney, knowing Brimstone was fed and warm in the stable at the back.

The only thing marring her happiness was Luke’s words of that morning:
It was never a love-match
 . . .

She knew. She
knew
it wasn’t. So why did his words niggle at her like toothache, lurking there ready to make her flinch with pain when she least expected it? He was only stating a fact.

She should have been happy that Sebastian was off their trail. She should have been singing with gratitude that she was free: free of him, free to be her own woman at last. She didn’t want to marry Luke. She didn’t want to marry anyone – she wanted to be her own woman, to own property, to choose where to live and where to love, not owned by some man, however kindly.

So why did her heart hurt whenever she thought of Luke’s words by the roadside?
We’re safe . . . it was never a love-match
.

The room above the forge was tiny – barely even an attic. It was warmed only by the borrowed heat from the smithy chimney and had nowhere to cook or wash. She supposed the apprentice must have eaten his meal with the smith at lunchtime, and had bread and cheese for his dinner, and washed in the cold-water butt in the yard. There was a pump and an outhouse round the back of the stables.

But at least it was clean – or it was now. She had spent all afternoon sweeping and brushing and then, when the smith had left, she’d relented to her tiredness and whispered a spell to chase away the final cobwebs and brighten the small, grimy window. Now she was lying on her back in the narrow single bed, her hands locked behind her head, staring into the oak rafters and waiting for Luke to finish in the forge and come upstairs. And she was thinking. Thinking of Luke, of his strange contradictory nature. Of his silence, and his guarded face, and the softness of his lips when they’d kissed . . .

She let her eyes close.

‘Rosa!’ Luke took the stairs two at a time. He’d washed his face and sooty hands under the pump in the yard, and now he had his wages in his pocket and a light heart. ‘Rosa! The smith was so pleased he gave me a full day’s pay. Let’s—’

She was lying on the bed in the candlelight, her cheek pillowed on her hand, fast asleep. The room was immaculate – so far from the dusty, cobweb-filled attic the smith had showed him that he could scarce believe it was the same place. How hard she must have worked . . .

‘Rosa?’ he said more softly, and she stirred, but didn’t wake. Luke made up his mind. There was a scrap of wrapping from the loaf they’d eaten for lunch neatly folded on the table, and he took a pencil stub from a pot of odds and ends on the windowsill and wrote a note:
GONE TO TOWN TO GET BREAD. BACK SOON, LUKE
.

He spread it on the table and then bent over her, tempted to lean and kiss her cheek, golden in the candlelight. But he didn’t. Instead he drew the blanket over her and then pulled on his greatcoat and left for the town.

In Langholm he bought bread and a bottle of beer. The shops were closing, the grocers selling off their wares cheap, and he got a good piece of ham for just tuppence.

He was turning back for home when he saw a sign that made him stop.
Post Office
.

He stood in the road biting his lip and, as he did, a woman came out from behind the counter and put her hand to the sign, turning it to
Closed
.

‘Wait!’ He ran forward, pushing at the door. She shook her head crossly.

‘Sorry, we’re closin’.’

‘Please.’ He smiled, doing his best to hide his impatience. ‘Please, I’m so sorry. I only just got off work.’

‘What d’ye want?’

‘Just to send a letter, miss. I’ll be quick.’ He smiled again, trying to win her round. ‘I got a job today; I wanted to send half my first wages to my sister.’

She bit her lip and then rolled her eyes, a smile cracking through her irritated mask of politeness – and he knew he’d won.

‘Come away in then, but be quick about it. I’ll no have half the street followin’ yer in to do their business after. It’s this one thing and then I’m closin’, like it or no.’

He followed her in. She was pretty – maybe twenty or twenty-five, her hair in a pompadour on top of her head.

‘Ye’ll be wanting paper and envelopes, I suppose.’

‘If you can spare it. And . . .’ Dare he risk his luck? ‘And sealing wax, if I can ask for one more favour.’

‘Get away wi’ ye! You’ll be wanting tea and scones next,’ she grumbled. But she found him notepaper and an envelope and a stick of sealing wax with some matches. Luke took up the borrowed pen – and then stopped. What to say?

The girl stood, tapping her foot as he bit his lip, and he knew it didn’t matter, he just had to write something.

Dear Minna
, he wrote.

I was very sorry to go without saying goodbye. I hope you now that I would not have done so by choice.

I am putting a half-sovriegn

No, wait, that didn’t look right. He crossed ‘sovriegn’ out and tried again . . .

soveriegn under the seal. It is all the monie I have. PLEASE do not let your dad get sight of it. Spend it on food for yourself & the kids.

If you need me

He stopped. He could not think of a way to put his address in that could not be traced. In the end he just sighed, crossed it out and wrote:

I will try to send more when I can.

Yours ever

Luke

PS Tell no one that you heard from me. Not even William.

He folded the letter, addressed it, and put the half-sovereign under the flap. Then he lit the end of the sealing wax, watching it drop down to cover the coin, turning it into an indistinguishable lump instead of a thievable piece of gold. He had no seal or ring, so he let the girl at the counter stamp it with the post-office seal and affix the stamp.

‘Thank you.’ He pushed his money across the counter and she smiled at him.

‘You’re welcome. I like to see a man who takes care o’ his sister. London, eh? You’re a long way fra home. Got a sweetheart up here, have ye?’

‘I . . .’ He stopped. The words gave him a sudden, unaccountable pain in his heart.
Yes. No
. ‘There’s a girl,’ he said at last, picking his words.

‘Oh aye.’ She gave a sigh as she dropped the letter into the post-bag and tied the top. ‘There aywis is.’

‘Rosa.’

The voice came through her dream and she moaned softly, pushing her face into the pillow, not wanting to wake from the warm drowsiness and contentment. ‘Rosa. Wake up. I’ve got supper.’

‘Luke?’ She raised her head from the pillow, blinking and confused. He was sitting on the end of the bed, his face soft and golden in the candlelight. ‘What time is it?’

‘I don’t know, but not much gone six. It’s been dark since four though.’

‘Urgh.’ She sat up, raking her hair off her face. ‘I’ve been asleep. I feel . . . I hate sleeping in the daytime. Have you been into the village?’

‘Yes, it’s more of a town really. I got bread and ham and beer.’ He put them on the table. ‘That’s all our money gone but the smith’s promised me at least two weeks’ work. He says even if his lad’s up and about before that, he’ll have too much to do catching up.’

‘
All
our money? I thought we had half a sovereign left?’

‘We did.’ He bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry. I – I sent it to Minna.’

‘You
what
?’

‘Don’t worry – I didn’t give our address or tell her anything. But . . .’

But she knew. He’d been so worried. Minna had suffered as much as any of them from Sebastian’s cruelty. She could be dying of phossy jaw right now, for all they knew.

‘I could scry,’ Rosa said softly. ‘You know I’d do it in a heartbeat.’

‘I know.’ He was setting out bread and ham. They had no plates – just squares of waxed paper, but they’d do. ‘I know. But I don’t want you to.’

‘Why
not
?’

‘You know why not.’

But she didn’t, not really.

‘I wouldn’t change anything . . .’ She tried again, but he was shaking his head before she’d even finished.

‘Don’t you understand?
Looking
would change things. I don’t want you to.’

‘You still think it’s devil’s work?’

‘No. I – I don’t know.’ His face was troubled and he took her hand in his. ‘No, I know it’s not. I know it’s part of you – and I don’t think any part of you was made by the devil. But I just . . . Look, I’m a man, Rosa. I wouldn’t want a woman doing my dirty work for me.’

‘You were happy enough for my magic to get you out of that burning factory,’ she said, trying not to sound bitter; but to her surprise he smiled – a reluctant, wry smile that twisted half his mouth, but it was a smile.

‘I was. I’m a hypocrite maybe, but not a fool.’

She had to laugh at that, and they both took a bite of their bread and ham, and she realized how hungry she was without even knowing it. They shared the beer, and then Rosa said, ‘What now? To bed? It seems odd when I’ve only just woken, but there’s only a stub of candle left.’

‘Not yet,’ Luke said. He ran his hand over the deep, soft beard shadowing his jaw. ‘I’m going to shave.’

‘No!’ she began to laugh. ‘What, now?’

‘Why not? I don’t know how old the apprentice was, but he left his razor in the basin. And there’s soap out by the pump.’

‘You’ll freeze! You’ll cut yourself to ribbons with shivering.’

‘I’m not that mad. I’ll heat a kettle on what’s left of the forge fire and bring a basin up here.’

She waited while he went out to the yard, and heard the clank, clank of the pump handle, and then the roar of the bellows as he kindled the remains of the forge fire into life. Then at last she heard his footsteps on the stairs outside and his boot kicked open the door. He was carrying a china basin full of steaming water, walking slow and steady with the concentration of trying not to spill it.

‘I used to watch my papa shave,’ Rosa said as he set it down gently on the little table and took up the soap and the cut-throat razor.

‘Well, I’ve just realized there’s one thing missing,’ Luke said.

‘What’s that – a towel?’

‘No, I’m not that fancy. A mirror.’

‘I’ll help,’ she said, before she could think better of it.

‘You know how to use a cut-throat razor?’ Luke looked at her doubtfully.

‘I think so. I watched Papa do it often enough. You can start off; I’ll just do the bits you can’t see.’

‘All right. And I tell you what, if you cut my throat, I
will
let you use a healing spell. Deal?’

‘Deal,’ she said with a smile. He pulled his shirt over his head and began to rub his face with soap. Rosa swallowed. It was not the first time she had seen him half dressed. Over the last few weeks she’d caught glimpses of him dressing and undressing, washing in the river, sometimes pissing, when there wasn’t a tree around. But it was the first time he had sat in front of her completely shirtless, his muscles and bones all dips and shadows in the small intimate circle of the candlelight. His arms and throat were tanned dark gold, but the skin on his shoulders and chest was white – as white as her own – apart from the dark-red scar of the hammer branded on his shoulder blade.

She half felt she should look away, but he seemed unconcerned, and so she did not, but watched as he rubbed the soap across his jaw and then began to scrape carefully with the sharp edge of the razor, scraping away the rough growth of beard that shadowed his cheeks. Every now and then he stopped to wipe the razor on a rag and then he carried on, methodically working his way across his jaw.

At last he’d done almost all and he turned to her.

‘I can’t do the last bits without a mirror to see where I’ve missed. Are you sure you can do it?’

‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘Come here. Put your head in my lap so I can see your face in the candlelight.’

He came to sit on the floor by the edge of the bed, in the dip between her legs where her skirts and petticoats made a soft dint against the mattress edge. He laid his head back against her and looked up with an expression so calm and trusting – and the sight of him lying there, his throat bare to the knife, almost choked her.

‘I’ll do—’ Her throat was dry, and she swallowed again. ‘I’ll do your lips first. Don’t speak.’

She held his head with her left hand, feeling the rough silk of his hair between her fingers and the slow, soft beat of a vein in his temple where her fingertips rested. In her right hand she held the razor. She found her heart was beating fast.

‘Hush now,’ she said huskily. She began to shave him, very gently and cautiously at first, and then with more confidence as she got the feel of the razor against his skin and the knack of holding it at the right angle, so it shaved close as a whisper and did not nick.

‘Now your throat.’

He lifted his chin.

‘Mind my Adam’s apple.’

‘I’ll be careful.’

She put her left hand on the other side of his throat to steady herself and she could feel his pulse beneath her palm, stronger than before, faster too. Was it possible he was not as unaffected as he seemed?

‘You know,’ he spoke carefully, softly, between scrapes of the blade, ‘you could probably take that bandage off now.’

She looked down at her left hand. She’d almost forgotten it was there. It was so dirty she felt ashamed she had not changed it, but it had been impossible on their flight through England, never staying more than a day in any place.