Witch Hunt (Witch Finder 2) (38 page)

‘Yes,’ he found himself saying, as her mouth found his. For how could he let her go? This light, flame-filled girl he loved more than life. ‘Yes, I’ll come . . .’

T
he RMS
Albion
stood at the dock at Portsmouth, dwarfing all the other ships in the harbour. Rosa had never imagined anything so huge – like a travelling, floating hotel. She had read aloud to Cassie the brochure that had accompanied their tickets, describing with astonishment the restaurants, billiard rooms, covered walkways, quoits deck, library – every kind of amusement and pastime man could devise, crammed into seven decks.

Now they had been shown to their cabins – she and Cassie sharing a two-room suite, Luke in a single first-class berth on the opposite side of the ship. Rosa was on the manifest as Rose Farrier, a joke that had made her and Luke smile when they came up with it. Luke had just shrugged when Cassie asked what name to put down.

‘Put me down as Luke Lexton. If they find I’m gone, so much the better.’ But Rosa knew the real reason, or thought she did. His surname was all Luke had to remember William by. He would take the risk rather than lose that last link.

Below they heard the roar of the engines as the great ship began to build up steam, and she opened the window in their cabin and leant out, looking towards London, thinking of Mama and Alexis. She knew she should miss them; she knew she should feel sad at the thought of them mourning her death, burying an empty coffin with just a handful of the Southing ashes instead of a corpse. But she could not. She felt – not empty. Not even numb, for what she felt was not
nothing
, it was – indifference? Perhaps there was no word for this feeling, a kind of benign detachment. They would have their legacy now. And she would be free; poor but free.

I am no one
, she thought.
I am nothing. I have nothing
.

But it was not true. She was Rose Farrier. She had her freedom. And she had Luke. Suddenly she wanted him, wanted to feel his skin beneath her hands, to believe that this was real, at last, that they could be together in safety.

She found him in his cabin, watching out of the window as she had been, but he was not sitting by the porthole, he was standing, gripping the wooden surround so tight his fingers were white and the muscles in his back were tense as iron.

‘Luke?’

He had not heard her come in over the thrum of the engines, and he turned, startled.

‘Rosa!’ Beneath the surprise, his face was troubled, and she felt something uneasy stir in the pit of her stomach.

‘Wh-what’s the matter?’

He swallowed and turned away to the window, but it was when he turned back to her, tears in his eyes and said, ‘Come here, love,’ that she felt a sudden coldness.

‘You’ve never called me that before,’ she said as she came across the little room. He sat, drawing her on to his knee and folded his arms around her.

‘I should have,’ he said, and his voice cracked. ‘I should have told you I loved you every day since we met, because it was true, even when I didn’t know it myself.’

He put his face on her shoulder and she felt his breath shudder as he tried to pull himself together.

‘Luke, what is it?’ She took his chin and pulled his face to look at her. ‘You’re scaring me. What’s the matter?’

He took a long breath, as if he were readying himself for a fight, or a dive into nothing.

And then he spoke.

‘I – I can’t come. To America.’

She did not speak, but whatever showed in her face made him tighten his grip round her and his words came rushing out like tears.

‘I wish I could . . . My God, Rose, you don’t know how much I . . . but I can’t.
I
wrote that book. I condemned those men and women and children. And I can’t leave that, I can’t leave it undone. Leadingham is dead, but the book is still there, and while it is, I can’t run away.’

‘Luke . . .’ she whispered, but the words wouldn’t come.

‘I could spend a lifetime trying to atone for what I did to you, but as long as your name is in that book, along with all the others, I’ll never manage. If we’re ever to be happy . . .’

He choked again and then scrubbed furiously at his eyes. His voice was cracked with tears.

‘I’d lay down my tools for you, Rose. I would become something else. I’d make any sacrifice for you, and gladly. D’you understand? But this – this I can’t lay down. It’s not
me
I’m sacrificing. It’d be them,
you
. I must go back. I
must
destroy it. And then I can rest.’

She felt his arms around her, feeling her heart swell and crack with love for him, and she did not cry. She could not cry. She only listened to the thrum of the ship and thought of the peaceful life an ocean away that they could have had. But she knew that he was right – that there would be no peace for him, no future for either of them, while that book seeped its black poison into London’s streets, and men, women and children that he had identified were condemned to death on his word.

‘Do you understand?’ he said again, and his voice broke. ‘Say something, Rose, please.’

She nodded. She had to force the words out, and when they came they were a whisper, but she made them come.

‘Yes. Yes, I understand.’ She swallowed and spoke more strongly. ‘But I cannot leave Cassie. Not now, not when I’ve promised her to come.’

‘I know.’ His voice was hoarse with tears. ‘I’m not asking you to stay. I don’t
want
you to stay. I want you to go – be happy – make a new life.’

They sat for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, remembering the days and nights they had held each other and thinking of the emptiness to come.

‘You look different,’ Luke said softly. ‘Your magic. It’s different. Did something change, in the fire?’

‘Perhaps –’ her throat was tight and sore, and she swallowed against the pain, ‘– perhaps it’s because I’m not afraid any more.’

The thrum of the engine increased to a whine and she forced herself to stand, pulling herself away from his clutching arms.

‘I love you,’ he said hopelessly. The tears ran down his cheeks.

‘I love you too. Now, go, before the ship leaves.’

‘I’ll come and find you, I promise.’ He kissed her, his tears on her lips, his arms so tight around her that it ached, but she did not care. She wanted to remember this always, to feel his bones imprinted on hers. ‘This Entwhistle – he’s a big man, by the sound of it. He won’t be hard to find. However long it takes, I
will
come. Will you wait?’

‘No, I won’t wait,’ she said, and she put his hand to his face, trying to smile at the sudden hurt she saw in his eyes. ‘For if you don’t come to me, I will find you. We
will
be together, Luke. Remember what Cassie said?’

‘She saw us,’ he managed. ‘Both of us. Happy.’

She nodded again.

The ship had begun to shudder and a bell was ringing up and down the corridor. ‘Shore visitors and workmen off the ship!’ someone was calling. ‘Ten minutes to embarkation! Visitors to shore!’

‘Go!’ she said, and her voice was fierce, almost angry.

‘I love you.’ He kissed her again, and again, on her face and her lips and her eyes and her throat, until she began to sob.

‘Go! Luke, please, p-please just go.’

He nodded, grabbed his bag and turned.

‘I love you!’ she cried after him, unable to bear it if that was the last he heard from her.

‘I love you too, Rose!’ he called back. ‘We’ll find each other, I swear it. I love you!’

And then his voice was drowned in the ringing of the embarkation bell.

Standing on the desk, Rosa watched as the great boat slid smoothly away from the bustling port. Somewhere in that throng of people was Luke, but from this great height she could not pick him out of the mill of caps and greatcoats.

Luke
, she thought, sending her longing out, across the widening gulf of sea, not a spell, but just a heart’s cry of love.
Be safe. Come back to me
.

And somewhere out there, although she could not see him, she knew he was there. She felt it inside her, like a warmth that burnt against the chill breeze, picking up as they headed out of the port.

She looked away from the quay and turned into the wind, feeling its cold exhilaration on her face. And the boat turned to face America and the future.

T
he first thing that hit me was the smell – damp and bitter. It was the smell of a place long shut up, of mice, bird-droppings, and rot.

‘Welcome to Wicker House,’ Dad said, and flicked a switch. Nothing happened, and he groaned.

‘Probably been disconnected. I’ll go and investigate. Here, have this.’ He pushed the torch at me. ‘I’ll get another one from the car.’

I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering as I swung the torch’s thin beam around the shadowy, cobwebbed rafters. The air in the house was even colder than the night outside.

‘Go on,’ Dad called from the car. ‘Don’t wait for me; go and explore. Why don’t you check out your bedroom – I thought you’d like the one at the top of the stairs. It’s got a lovely view.’

I didn’t want to explore. I wanted to go home – except where was home? Not London. Not any more.

Dust motes swirled, silver in the torchlight, as I pushed open a door to my right and peered into the darkness beyond. The narrow circle of the torch’s beam glittered back at me from a broken window, then traced slowly across the damp-splotched plaster. I guessed this had once been a living room, though it seemed strange to use the word ‘living’ about a place so dead and unloved.

Something moved in the dark hole of the fireplace. Images of mice, rats, huge spiders ran through my head – but when I got up the courage to shine the torch I saw only a rustle of ashes as whatever it was fled into the shadows. I thought of my best friend, Lauren, who went bleach-pale at even the idea of a mouse. She’d have been standing on a chair by now, probably screaming. The idea of Lauren’s reaction to this place made me feel better, and I reached into my pocket for my phone and started a text.

Hi Lauren, we’ve arrived in Winter. The welcome party consists of half a dozen rats and
—

I broke off. There was no signal. Well, I’d known this place would be isolated, Dad had called that ‘part of its charm’. But even so . . . Maybe I could get a signal upstairs.

The stairs creaked and protested every step, until I reached a landing, with a corridor stretching into darkness, lined with doors. The closest was ajar – and I put my hand on it and pushed.

For a minute I was dazzled by the moonlight flooding in. Then, as my eyes adjusted, I took in the high, vaulted ceiling, the stone window seat, and smelled the faint scent of the sea drifting through the open window.

Through the casement I could see the forest stretching out, mile after mile, and beyond a thumbnail moon cast a wavering silver path across the night-black sea. It was heart-breakingly lovely and, in that fleeting instant, I caught a glimmer of what had brought Dad to this place.

I stood, completely still, listening to the far off sound of the waves. Then a harsh, inhuman cry ripped through the room, and a dark shape detached from the shadows. I ducked, a flurry of black wings beat the air above my head, and I caught a glimpse of an obsidian beak and a cold, black eye as the creature hunched for a second on the sill. Then it spread its wings and was gone, into the night.

My heart was thudding ridiculously, and suddenly I didn’t want to be exploring this house alone in the dark. I wanted Dad, and warmth, and light. Almost as if on cue, there was a popping sound, a blinding flash, and the light-bulb in the corridor blazed. I screwed up my eyes, dazzled by the harsh brightness after straining into the darkness.

‘Hey-hey!’ Dad’s shout echoed up the stairs. ‘Turns out the leccy wasn’t off – it was just a fuse. Come on down and I’ll give you the grand tour.’

He was waiting in the hall, his face shining with excitement. I tried to rearrange my expression into something approximating his, but it clearly didn’t work, because he put an arm around me.

‘Sorry it’s a bit of a nightmare, sweetie. The place hasn’t been occupied for years and I should have realized they’d have turned everything off. Not the best homecoming, I must admit.’