Page 58 of The Snow Witch

The woman glared at him. ‘You can wait your turn, sir, like everyone else.’

The man drew himself up to his full, intimidating height and peered down at the woman. ‘Insolent,’ he hissed. ‘Do you know how important my task is?’ He lifted his stick and poked it in the woman’s chest. ‘One test, madam, and you’ll not be seeing the light of day for a very long time.’ His gaze raked the woman from head to toe. ‘There’s a place in Hexham Gaol for you.’ He pushed the stick into her chest further, but she simply took hold of it and moved it away as three other men came towards the man and stood behind Tess.

The man wavered a little, and removed the stick, banging it off the floor.

‘I do not hold with bullies,’ said Tess coldly. ‘They are usually cowards. If you would like to take a seat, we will attend to you in due course.’

The man stood, his mouth working as if he wanted to say more, but then he turned and stomped away to a booth in the corner where he arranged his cloak around him and tapped his fingernails loudly and impatiently on the wooden tabletop.

Hexham Gaol? Emory stared at the man, knowing through gossip that one of the witches Kincaid had apparently called to account had been a Hexham woman – Jane Martin, wife of a miller, had been held in the old dungeon there before being transported to Newcastle for trial. The woman had not been hanged – but had vanished without trace after the trial.

Emory fixed his gaze on the man. That had to be him. Emory’s hands were splayed on the table, and he dug his nails into the wood for fear that he would launch himself at Nicholson immediately.

Emory’s heart continued to bounce around his chest, and he forced himself to wait and take stock of the situation. He wanted to enjoy it, after all.

His fingers slipped into his waistband and he found the dagger again, and more of its energy and strength pulsed into his body. Meg’s face came into his mind, laughing as her hair blew in the wind and she held it back with her hand on her forehead. Then a vision of the pile of ash came to him, memories of how it had felt in his hands as he threw her into the river so she could be free…

Enjoy your ale, Nicholson, he thought. It will be the last you ever taste.

* * *

Emory sat for two hours staring at Nicholson. It was sorely tempting to go for him right there, to plunge the dagger into his evil heart and twist the blade while he watched him writhe and splutter in his final moments.

But that came with a risk – the risk that he, Emory, would be dragged off the man and held to account.

No. He had to wait.

And eventually, his patience paid off.

Nicholson stood up and stormed off towards the staircase that led to the accommodation, and Emory stood just after the man swept past him.

He followed him to the stairs and looked up. Nicholson had turned right and Emory heard him storming along the corridor. Four loud footsteps and then a door crashed open and slammed shut.

Emory climbed the stairs and turned right. There were three rooms along there. ‘Dammit!’ Emory muttered. Which room had he gone into? Emory took four long strides, guessing at the pace and distance the man had walked. It pitched him up outside the second room. Emory took hold of the handle, fully intending to throw the door open and go for Nicholson at that moment – but then he imagined something like a hand on his arm, half-warning him and half-halting him.

Of course. She would tell him to wait, to be less impulsive; to attack when the vile monster was least expecting it.

Emory looked around and had three choices. He could hide in one of these rooms and hope that they weren’t occupied. He could sit down at the far end of the corridor, pressing himself into the shadows of the dark panelled walls; or he could go back outside the inn and try to climb up the wall and access the man’s room that way.

He cursed again, wondering what to do, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears as he looked around him. ‘Meg – what would you do?’ he murmured.

Images of Meg in the village of Newbrough poured into his mind’s eye: the way she pressed herself into the shadows; the way she flickered, barely there, as people swarmed around the streets, intent on their business. The darkness in her cottage that she would emerge from when he called on her…

Her smile, the light in her eyes, the joy she tried to conceal when she saw him.

Bile rose in his throat as he remembered again what Nicholson had done to her.

‘You were innocent, Meg,’ he whispered. He clutched the dagger, glad of its solidity and glad that her energy lingered within it. ‘He shall pay with his life.’

And it was Emory’s turn to melt into the shadows.

He waited until the sounds had ceased downstairs in the inn. He waited until he heard Tess calling goodnight to her two burly sons; he waited as Tess giggled, her husband saying something to her as they made their way to their quarters.

He waited until it was deadly silent in the inn.

It was just after midnight. She had died yesterday.

Emory walked to Nicholson’s door. His feet made no sound on the floorboards, the door opened at the barest touch; in his tormented mind, she was there, guiding him, showing him what to do.