Page 26 of The Snow Witch

‘We can do both.’ Jake shrugged. ‘If you like.’

‘Yes, why not?’

* * *

Jake was busy plotting a route and checking opening times when he heard someone call Violet’s name.

‘Violet? I thought that was you.’

He looked up as Violet turned to acknowledge the speaker and saw a fair-haired man standing there, his hands in his pockets and a stressed-out expression on his face. He spoke with a Yorkshire accent, and Jake had no idea who he was.

‘Ollie?’ Violet said. ‘Wow, fancy seeing you here. Jake, this is Ollie Brent. He’s staying at the guest house. He’s doing some research on his family tree. Roots in Newbrough, he thinks. His family owned Milburn Hall of all places. Ollie, this is my partner, Jake. The person who stopped me from slipping into the Well.’

Jake nodded at him. ‘Hi, Ollie. My family stems from Corbridge. Apparently. Never been inclined to look any of it up, though. My aunt’s the one who does that.’

‘Hi.’ Ollie half-smiled, but it was almost perfunctory. The man was distracted, his eyes darting over their shoulders as if he expected something to materialise from the old bricks. He seemed to drag his attention back to them, the troubled expression still there. ‘I’m not going to talk about the Well,’ said Ollie firmly. He looked around again, and then glanced at Jake. ‘At least not here. I came to Hexham for some human company.’

Violet nodded. ‘Me too. Only I was at Newbrough this morning.’

Jake watched them stare at each other silently for a moment, and then he cleared his throat. ‘Okay, well I’m going to head off to the Abbey. Is – anyone – coming that way?’ He pointed in the direction he intended heading.

‘Not me.’ Ollie shook his head and dug his hands further into his pockets. ‘Although I’ve heard there’s some good stuff in there if you’re into history and stuff.’

‘Yes. I am,’ said Jake. ‘Into history and stuff.’

‘Watch out for the Roman gravestone then,’ said Ollie. ‘And the melted lead on the steps from a fire.’ He looked around. ‘I think I’m going to have a wander around the town. With people and all that.’

‘We’re doing the Old Gaol as well,’ added Violet, and Jake thought he’d never had such a stilted, awkward conversation in his life. ‘After the Abbey.’

‘Yes,’ said Jake. ‘After the Abbey.’

And still, Violet and Ollie stared at one another, and Jake had the definite impression there was something hanging very much unsaid between the pair of them.

18

THEN

After she had picked herself up from the ground outside the church, Meggie made her way back to the cottage, limping slowly, sobbing and bruised where the men had grabbed her.

Arnica. She needed an arnica salve. That would help, but then what? What could she do? Everyone hated her; everyone blamed her. She couldn’t stay here, not in Newbrough where everyone thought she had wilfully murdered her friend. Over the last couple of days, she had slipped out in the early hours before dawn, terrified that someone might see her and taunt her. And only yesterday, she had found a hen, its neck twisted and broken, lying outside of her cottage.

Yet what motive for murder had she had? None at all. That, they didn’t seem to see. That, they⁠—

She pushed open her door and saw a figure sitting there, huddled in the shadows by her fireplace. The cottage was dim and her eyes, sore and strained by crying, took a moment to adjust to the low light. She strangled a scream as the figure jumped to their feet and walked towards her, reaching out their hands, then she realised who it was and felt weak with relief.

‘Emory! Oh thank the blessed goddess you are here.’

‘I was waiting for you, my love. I hope you do not mind. I had the coachman drop me off at the Well, but you were not there. So I came here instead. I let myself in. I was warming myself by the fire, watching the snow fall outside.’ He took her hands and raised them to his lips. He kissed them tenderly, and then looked at her face properly. ‘Meg! What in hell happened?’

She shook her head. ‘Alice is dead. They forced me out of the church, so I could not even see her laid to rest. She is dead because your brother⁠—’

‘He is not my brother!’

Meg didn’t want to argue. ‘Alice died. Because of what he did to her. And because of what I made for her to take. And because I told her what was in the tincture, and she stole the mugwort from me…’ Her voice hitched on a sob. It was the truth. At the end of the day, Alice had been at fault; much as Meggie loved her, she knew in her heart that was the case. But it didn’t make things any easier and nobody wanted to believe that. ‘The village hates me; it will begin to hate you as well if it sees you here. It will accuse you of consorting with me. Or mutter that I enchanted you⁠—’

‘Meg!’ Emory looked appalled. He dropped one of her hands and touched her on the cheek. ‘This is not your fault. Tell me who did this. I shall kill them, I swear…’

She flinched, even his gentle touch hurting where the man had hit her. ‘You cannot kill the whole village! Everyone blames me for Alice. This is how much they blame me.’ She looked up at him. ‘Do you see these bruises? All of these marks?’ She pulled free of Emory’s gentle grasp on her hand and held out both arms, finger marks evident where the men had grappled with her, half-moon cuts where their filthy nails had dug into her skin and drawn blood. ‘The people of the village did this to me. At her funeral.’ She tilted her head so he could see her cheek more clearly in the candlelight. It felt swollen and painful where the man had hit her. ‘They did this as well. And yes. They threw me out of the church. Four of them. Four men.’