Page 7 of The Snow Witch

Actually… That could work.

Yes. It was perfect – he was definitely going on a little road trip today.

But maybe he wouldn’t tell Violet what his plans were – for now, at least.

4

THEN

Newbrough

Winter 1650

‘Meggie!’

The voice was a low hiss. Meggie turned, unsure as to where it had come from, her skin prickling with recognition, even as she heard it. She stopped, dread filling her soul.

It could be guaranteed that the owner of the voice would not show themselves willingly. It was often like that for Meg. A few villagers were suspicious of her gifts, and some were openly mocking. Emory’s childhood name for her had been whispered around Newbrough for years and it had stayed with her: she was Meggie Noble, the Snow Witch. Her hair had not darkened, and her skin was as milky-white as it had always been, and she roamed the moors in all weathers, haunting Coventina’s Well and harnessing nature for her remedies and tinctures, so it was unsurprising, really.

And it made Meg smile – she was as far removed from a witch as she could possibly be. But she didn’t mind. She enjoyed helping people; it was her reason for existence – that and Emory, and soon their child – and those villagers who needed her help conveniently forgot the fact that they were asking for the assistance from a so-called witch.

And in certain cases, when they needed her help, they did not usually want other people to know.

Today, she had just left her cottage and was hurrying through the village, her shawl pulled tightly around her, when the voice summoned her. Her stomach churned and she made a great effort not to curl her lip.

‘Charles.’ Her greeting was abrupt. This was not the person she wanted to see.

‘Meg.’ Charles Milburn appeared out of an alley, smug and self-satisfied as always. Her eyes roved across his face, and she did not trust him one bit. She never had done. Charles Milburn, Emory’s so-called ‘brother’, had lost his mother years ago and his father twelve months ago. He was now twenty-six years old and head of the most powerful family in the area, and Meg had no choice but to acknowledge him.

The two men were very different from one another. Emory was dark and passionate, whereas Charles was fair and coolly calculating. Emory’s emotions were writ all over his face, bubbling just under the surface, ready to erupt into laughter or temper; Charles reminded Meg of the adders she sometimes found in the grass – silent and ready to pounce, quietly evil in their own special way. She could never have imagined being as uninhibited with Charles as she was with Emory. Laughing until she cried, loving until she lost her breath – she was one with Emory and one with the landscape they called their own.

The only things that made each man remotely resemble the other were their eyes and the faint outline of their chins. They both had a look of Charles’ father about them, and the rumours had spread that Emory was the child of a Romany woman and Mr Thomas Milburn, brought home to Milburn Hall to be raised as Thomas’ son.

And as much as Meg adored Emory, as much as her love for him was almost a physical pain, her hatred for Charles Milburn was of an equal strength. He had summoned Meggie to do his bidding on more than one occasion, and it was never a good sign when he sought her out.

‘I hope you are well, Charles,’ Meggie said tonelessly, crossing her fingers beneath her shawl. She didn’t really care how he was, or indeed particularly hope that he was well. In her mind, he could be writhing in agony from a fever, and she wouldn’t hurry to bring him a tisane to cure him or whisper words over a charm to protect him.

Far more likely she would prefer to whisper words over a charm to make the fever take quite a different course with him. But that was not her choice to make, and she was sworn to help everyone, regardless of her personal feelings towards them.

Charles moved closer to her, coming halfway out of the alley so his face was partially in harsh winter sunlight. His fair, wavy hair was pulled back loosely and tied with a blue velvet ribbon, his dark eyes drilling into her, amused for some reason.

He seemed relaxed and cheerful and leant against a wall, tapping a riding whip against his thigh. ‘I’m extraordinarily well, thank you.’ He pushed himself off the wall and stood facing Meggie. In one seamless movement, he brought out his arm and pulled Meggie into the alleyway. He thrust her against the wall and planted one hand either side of her head. Meggie could smell some sort of lavender perfume emanating from his crisp, white shirt and pressed riding breeches. She fought against pushing him away, even as he stood there…

‘Ah Meggie. You are glorious. And so pretty. I’d never noticed before.’

Meggie fought harder to mask her hatred for the man. She pressed herself backwards into the wall, wishing that she could allow herself to disappear right through it, to fade into an insubstantial mist that he could not touch with those vice-like fingers. But then he levered himself away from the wall and stood looking down at her, smirking.

‘What do you want, Charles?’ She was under no illusions.

Charles Milburn never paid her social calls, thank the goddess Coventina – he only lurked in that despicable way when he needed her to do something. It was usually to get her to ‘take care’, as he said, of a girl in the village. Who had, most unfortunately, found herself with child.

‘I wonder,’ said Charles thoughtfully, ‘would you please just work your Snow Witch – magic – and call in on one of our friends?’

Meggie nodded mutely. She knew she had no choice, even though she hated it. If anyone had told her to get rid of her child, she did not think she could be responsible for her actions towards them. But it was different for her; she did not care what anyone thought, and she had no family to shame. It was only her and Emory it concerned. She would not be able to hide her pregnancy much longer. Already, she walked more slowly, but her shifts and the loosened laces of her bodice still hid her changing shape, especially when she pulled her shawl around her. But she cared naught for the whispers it would bring. Come the spring, she would have her child.

‘Who is it?’ she asked now. ‘Who am I to speak to?’

Charles smiled and leant in. ‘Alice. Alice Scott.’