Page 27 of The Snow Witch

‘Mother of God!’ Emory took hold of her around the waist, holding her as if she were precious porcelain, looking down at her rounded belly, his brow creased in anger and concern. ‘And this happened at Alice’s funeral?’ He cursed, his grip on her waist increasing protectively. ‘The babe. Have they harmed him as well? If they have, I shall not rest until they have all paid for it, every single one of them⁠—’

She put a finger under his chin and forced him to look her in the eyes. His eyes were black as night, wild and stormy, his voice rising. ‘Emory!’ She had to stop him. She couldn’t risk Emory losing his temper like that; she feared for the life of those men if he did. ‘No. Leave it. I cannot have them turn on you as well. The babe is well. Look – see how he kicks.’

Roughly, she moved his hands away from her waist and pressed them against her stomach. She saw relief flood his face as he felt the child kick against his palms. ‘He is well,’ she said. ‘But please. I need the arnica.’

She pushed past him, stumbling over to the dresser that held her plates and cups, and pulled open the drawers. She took her dagger out and laid it on the top, next to the dried herbs and the beeswax and the pestle and mortar she kept there. She took a small pot of arnica ointment out of the drawer and tried to fix a new tallow candle into the holder next to where she had lain the dagger.

Her hands were shaking as she did so, and Emory came up beside her. ‘Let me,’ he said softly. He secured the candle and lit it. ‘Better?’ he asked and she nodded.

She saw him glance at the dagger as she put it back in the drawer and closed it. ‘Yes. It is a dagger,’ she said. ‘Part of me wishes I had taken it today, but it was a church, and…’ She couldn’t continue. Suddenly, Meggie doubled up, agonising sobs wracking her body. ‘I did not mean to do it, Emory. It should not have happened like that. Goddess, I should have done something to him. He is the one who caused this; he is the one who…’ She grabbed the arnica ointment and sat heavily down on a wooden chest, burying her face in her hands. ‘It should not have happened. I told her. She promised me. But they are calling me a witch and they all hate me.’

Wordlessly, Emory took the ointment from her grip and knelt down in front of her. He peeled her hands from her face, and it was his turn to place his fingertip on her chin and tilt her face upwards. She closed her eyes as he dipped his fingertips in the pot and began to dab it on her skin where the marks were, murmuring gentle words to her. She kept her eyes closed and let the tears run down her face unchecked as he did so.

‘Who were they, Meg?’ he tried again. ‘I can have them arrested, tried. Sentenced. Just tell me.’ His voice was dark, too steady. She knew he would be out for vengeance, and it wouldn’t stop until those men were dead. ‘Or I can find them myself and deal with them. It will be quicker.’

For all Emory had lived at Milburn Hall most of his life and had been given a gentleman’s education and all the privileges that came with life in wealthy family, his heart and soul were still closer to Meggie’s own wildness than to a gentleman’s upbringing. He was impulsive and generous, and loved and hated with a passion Meg had not thought was possible. It made her think that his ancestors had been Romany, as everyone had whispered in the beginning. But she did not care. Why would she? She had hardly had a conventional upbringing herself. The moors, and especially the Well, had called to her all her life. And her soul had called out to Emory’s, and his had answered wholeheartedly.

She could not risk losing him to this situation, because she knew once he started to wreak his revenge on those men, he would not stop and the danger would fall back on him.

‘No. It matters not,’ she whispered, feeling the tears rise again. What good would it do? Who would believe Emory Milburn was protecting the village’s greatest monster of his own volition? They’d just accuse her of bewitching him.

She just had to let it play out and bear the consequences.

‘If you let me wed you, I can protect you in other ways,’ Emory said, putting the pot down and reaching his hand up to smooth her hair away from her face.

Meg laughed mirthlessly. ‘Can you imagine me as a bride at Milburn Hall?’

‘Aye, granted, it would be like trapping a wild animal…’ Emory’s eyes were soft now as he looked at her. ‘Like catching a flash of lightning. You could not be contained. But you would be safe. I love you, Meg Noble. You are carrying our child. There is no greater reason for us to wed. And I will ask for your hand again and again. I am kneeling, it seems appropriate, so⁠—’

She shook her head, then raised her hand and pressed her fingertips over his lips. She trailed her hand down to the neck of his shirt and her fingers hovered over the collar. ‘Hush. Do not ask me that. You know I cannot answer yes.’

‘Then what would make you say yes?’ He sat back on his heels, yet he was not quite defeated. Meg could sense the churning emotions under the surface. When he was like this, he was capable of a dreadful persistence.

‘Very well. I shall make a deal,’ she said. ‘Next time you can catch a bolt of lightning, I will wed you. But until then, no. It will always be no. Even though you are my life and I could not bear it if we were parted.’

‘Meg, please.’ His eyes were desperate as they tracked her face. ‘I can protect you. I can make all this stop, all the lies, everything. Just marry me, for God’s sake, and make it so.’

‘Emory. I cannot.’

‘I am not sure what else I can do to persuade you.’ Emory tried to make a joke, even as the hurt of rejection glimmered in his eyes.

‘Catch the bolt of lightning. ’Tis easy.’

‘Oh God, Meg. You drive me wild. You frustrate the hell out of me, but I cannot ever imagine you not being here. Us not being together.’

‘I know. I want your child, Emory Milburn. I want you. Please, just let that be enough for you as well.’

Emory raised himself up on his knees, his hands either side of her seated body, and she leant down, her arms snaking around his neck, pulling him towards her as their lips met.

‘Just be with me, Meg. Be with me. Or let me be with you,’ he whispered against her lips.

‘So long as there is breath in my body and my heart is beating,’ she whispered back. ‘And longer, if I can.’

‘That, then, my love, is enough.’

And then, there were no more words.

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