Page 48 of The Snow Witch

‘Go on…’

‘You know how you saw that reflection in Coventina’s Well?’

Ollie nodded. How could he forget?

‘I saw one too.’

Ollie sat up straighter. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yes. I saw what I think was a witch trial. The woman they were accusing,’ she went even redder, ‘looked like me.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yes.’ Violet nodded. ‘And there was a man there as well.’

‘A man?’

‘Yes. And you know what was worse?’

Ollie shook his head. ‘Tell me.’

‘He looked like you.’

Ollie didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

‘And what I’m thinking,’ said Violet slowly, ‘is that if you are indeed descended from a Milburn of Milburn Hall, maybe he is the person you are descended from?’

‘Charles Milburn,’ said Ollie. ‘That’s the name of the guy I’m supposed to be related to. Do you think that’s who I saw when I… when I… saw that reflection of myself?’

Violet shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But it seems logical, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And, good grief, I’m really sorry to say this,’ said Violet, ‘but he looked pleased with himself when it was happening – when he was watching it all from his horse. He was arrogant as hell and even I could see that. Like he was enjoying it. Like he was smug.’

‘Like he was the one who accused her.’ Ollie’s voice was flat. ‘And he was the one who caused it.’

Violet was silent for a moment, then she took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps. I didn’t really want to say, but I thought the same.’

Ollie nodded silently. Miserably. She could well be right.

And he didn’t like it one bit.

30

THEN

Emory saw the smoke from the pyre drifting across the hillsides and wondered what was happening.

He had been visiting tenants in the Milburn properties at nearby Fourstones, and had suddenly felt the need to come back. He’d been unsettled the whole time he had travelled, and Meggie had been at the forefront of his mind. As he galloped back through Newbrough, he found the place to be far too quiet and deserted. This was not the bustling village he knew – and there was nobody to ask what was happening.

Emory… He looked around, convinced he’d heard Meggie speaking his name. But it was more like a desperate plea for him to go to her, rather than their love language: softly spoken, and full of desire.

Then: ‘Oh! Ellen! Are you well?’ he asked, as a woman came stumbling out of a side street, her fist rammed in her mouth, tears streaking her face. Ellen, Meggie, Alice and he had all been friends, when they’d been growing up. But Ellen had married a few years ago and had children now.

‘She is dead,’ sobbed Ellen. ‘They killed her. They killed her.’

Emory’s stomach turned over. ‘Who?’ He jumped down from his horse as Ellen bit down on her knuckles more. ‘Who has been killed? Tell me.’ He dipped his head to try to catch her eyes, but she remained looking at the ground, shaking her head.