Page 39 of The Book of Unwritten Stories

Lucine’s stomach clenched hard. ‘Let us go the other way.’

He shook his head. ‘I cannot turn away if someone is in trouble.’

‘If they are it is of their own doing. Please, John, let us go.’

The sound as a horse thundered through the brush towards them made Lucine quake in fear. There were two horses and on them were the worst people she could think of to meet under these circumstances. George Corwin had eyes as black as the night and he squinted at her; his companion, was Thomas Putnam. Corwin halted his horse. Lucine straightened up, her grip on John’s waist loosening.

‘How goest thou?’ asked Thomas.

‘Very well, thyself?’ replied John.

George did not break his stare, and Lucine could feel heat beginning to rise up her cheeks even though she had done no wrong.

‘Pray tell me, who was yelling? I was riding through the woods and met Goody English who also heard it and we were both coming to see if anyone was in need of our assistance.’

Thomas nodded. ‘That is very kind of you, but there is no need to worry thyself. We happened upon one of those children up to no good. George gave him the boot to move him on his way.’

Lucine’s fingers curled into tight fists, and she felt an anger so red hot begin to burn inside of her stomach. ‘And did you hurt this child? It sounds as if you did, that must make you feel very proud of thyself, George Corwin. Kicking at a child and what of when he tells his parents? Are you trying to start a war between the natives and the villagers?’

George looked at Thomas, his face ashen as he realised there could be consequences to his brutish actions.

‘Good day, Goody English, John Hadden. I will tell thy sisters we spied the two of you on horseback together.’

Lucine knew she should not but could not help herself. ‘And I will tell my sisters how you hurt a child with no thought of the consequences those actions may bring to the village. That was not very Godlike of you, George Corwin. I am sure your uncle will be most proud to hear of thy shortcomings.’

George glared at Lucine, then kicked his horse and took off galloping with Thomas Putnam close behind.

‘Thou has a wicked tongue inside of that pretty head, Lucine, I love it,’ whispered John.

She laughed. ‘I cannot be trusted to be meek and mild around those men; they bring out an infernal anger in me that no three-hour sermon in the meeting house could ever make me repent for. Come let us ride and see if we can find the child to see if they need our help. The tribe are very peaceful towards us English women. We have great respect for them and they for us.’

‘Are you afraid of those two telling tales about us being in the forest together?’

‘The village knows I spend a lot of time in here searching for plants to make healing elixirs to help when they are ailing. You are a loose cannon though, Mr Hadden, so I cannot say what they will chatter about regarding you being in the woods. Let them say what they will, we are doing no wrong.’

He laughed, then rode off in the direction the two men had come from. Near to the pond they saw a boy, his mud-stained face bore tear tracks and before John could say anything Lucine was sliding off the horse. She ran to him, holding out her hands, and the boy took hold of them. She pulled him close and held him, rocking him gently.

‘Are you hurt, Sagamore George?’

He nodded and pointed to his side. Lucine gently rolled up the deerskin vest he was wearing and gasped at the spreading purple-and-black bruise there. She went to the horse and from one of the saddle bags took out the linen package that Seraphina had given to her. Unwrapping the linen she then went to the pond and dipped the linen in the water before wringing it out. She held it towards the boy and said, ‘Cold, but good for bruising.’ And pointed to his side.

He nodded at her, his huge, gentle brown eyes trusting her, and she began to wind it around his middle, covering the bruise. He flinched at the coldness but kept still. When she was done, she pointed to the horse.

‘We will take you back. I will help you onto the horse.’

The boy looked at John, his eyes wide with fear and mistrust, but John got off the horse and pointed to the saddle. He smiled at the boy and the boy smiled back.

‘Come, we need to get you back and tell your mother what has happened to you,’ whispered Lucine, ‘there is no point in you finding it difficult to get back to the camp when we can be of assistance.’

She led him to the horse and John held out his hands. The boy looked unsure as he glanced at Lucine, who nodded, and the trust he put into her made her heart melt for him. He was scooped up by John in one swift swoop and sitting on the horse’s back before he could blink. A small gasp escaped his lips as he clutched at his side. He smiled at John who did a small bow, and this made the boy laugh. Lucine’s heart felt so full she thought it may burst. How this huge, kind, gentle man could make a scared boy who had been hurt for no good reason laugh made her love him more than she could ever put into words. Lucine led the way to the camp and John followed behind, leading Dapple and his precious load to safety.

THIRTY-TWO

SALEM, PRESENT DAY

Clara was seething. That black mass that she had sent to find the spell book she’d heard about had failed to bring it back to her. She knew by the spreading darkness in the sky surrounding those streets that it was somewhere along the wharf area, but there were a lot of apartments and houses down there, so she couldn’t exactly go knocking on all the doors. She could ask Arnie to make some enquiries, but the cold hard truth was she didn’t want anyone else but her to know about the book’s existence. Of course, there was the woman who had already come into possession of it, but there was no hard proof that she was using it the wrong way.

Clara paused, staring out of the window down at the Witch House, her arms folded across her chest. This was all the fault of those meddlesome English women. They had uncloaked a mysterious bookstore in the forest, to retrieve the infamous, long-lost book of spells which had been given to Lucine in the sixteen hundreds, and in doing so, they had caused such a huge ripple in the equilibrium when they banished that pain in her ass George Corwin into the care of Hecate no less. It made her sick to her stomach. How many times had she tried to summon the all-powerful witch, goddess of the night, to do her bidding, with no success? Too many to remember. Then that Dora had managed to call Hecate to the cemetery as if she was working a simple love spell. Which just proved how powerful those English women were. She was nothing compared to them and oh how it irked her beyond belief. Her family of bloodline witches was strong; they always had been, this she knew through the grimoires each female matriarch of the family had left behind. They were her most treasured possessions, but not one of them possessed the kind of magical superpowers held by the English women, and even the most inexperienced of them all had managed to summon Hecate. Stop it, Clara, focus on the present and getting hold of that book.