by Unknown
‘Knyvet!’ he screamed, the words tearing in his throat. ‘For God’s sake, help!’
But then the horn sounded from the other side of the ridge, its long note drifting in the breeze, and Sebastian’s head turned to its siren call. Luke almost saw the shrug of his shoulders inside the beautifully cut jacket. And then he was off, away over the brow of the hill, and far out of reach.
Luke buried his face in his hands. They were covered in mud and Cherry’s blood.
He was completely alone. He couldn’t go after the riders – they were on the other side of the river and he had no way to cross it. And by the time he had galloped back to the house to fetch someone she would be dead – if she wasn’t already.
It was up to him.
He slid back down the bank, his fingers grabbing at roots and branches to stop his fall, and stumbled on to the little muddy shore where Rosa’s body lay. Her face was utterly, starkly white. Her hat had gone and her wet red hair straggled loose across her shoulders, its fire doused.
‘Rosa,’ he said very softly, his voice hoarse and broken from his efforts to call Sebastian. ‘Rosa, can you hear me?’
She said nothing – or nothing he could hear above the roar of the stream. But he thought he saw her ribcage move, and when he put his ear close to her face he realized she was breathing, or trying to. It was a horrible wet, bubbling sound, and as he drew back he saw there was blood on her lips.
‘Oh Jesus.’ He had never felt so helpless. He’d once watched a man drown in his own blood like this – a shiv between his ribs after a pub fight. And he’d felt a kind of detached sorrow. But it was nothing like this. The man had entered the fight of his own free will and lost. It was nothing to do with Luke. This – this was different. This was Rosa, dying in his arms, because of his actions.
Her breath bubbled again, poppy-red spatters on her blue lips.
What could he do? He searched his memory frantically – and a memory came – of Phoebe fainting in the bar one night and Miriam loosening her corsets to let her breathe.
He began to tear at Rosa’s habit. It buttoned up the front – hundreds of damn slippery bone buttons that his cold fingers fumbled and lost. But at last he had it open – and as he peeled back the wet black layers his heart seemed to stop.
The snowy-white stock beneath was scarlet with blood.
Where was it coming from? He ripped at her blouse, his fingers wet now with her blood, small mother-of-pearl discs scattering into the mud. There was a silver locket, slick with blood and he pushed it roughly aside. Beneath her blouse was some kind of chemise – God damn it – why so many layers? At last beneath that was her corset. It fastened with hooks and eyes and tied at the top with a pitiful pink ribbon. The bow was soaked in blood.
He put his hand to the laces, ready to tug it apart – then he stopped. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to undo it. Her small white breasts rose and fell above the stiff edge, as she struggled painfully for breath, that horrible gargling sound bubbling inside her lungs. But all he could think of was her nakedness beneath – the violation of tearing apart her clothes as she died beneath his hands.
Don’t be stupid, a voice snarled in his head. Much she’ll care about her virtue when she’s as dead as her horse.
He set his hands to the fastenings and wrenched them savagely apart.
What was beneath brought bile to the back of his throat and sent a cold rush of horror prickling across the back of his skull and down his spine. For a moment his vision seemed to fracture and break and he swallowed. The force of the fall had snapped one of the whalebones in her corset, and the sharp edge had stabbed clean through the fabric, puncturing the pink tender skin beneath, sliding between her ribs and into her lung.
As he watched, Rosa dragged another breath and blood and air bubbled from the wound.
This was completely beyond him. She was drowning in her own blood – and there was nothing he could do.
What have I done?
You did what you had to do, lad. And now it’s over.
But it was not over. Not as long as she dragged breath after painful breath. Not as long as the blood bubbled at her lips.
He could finish it here. He could drive the whalebone home up into her heart. Then he could take the body back, his face wet with tears, and sob out his explanation: he told her not to go for the bridge, she wouldn’t listen, she was mad to catch up . . .
But he couldn’t. Crumpled white at his feet, her red hair trampled in the mud, she was no longer a witch but just a girl – a girl whose life was ebbing away as he watched.
He couldn’t kill her – not now, not ever. He’d known that from the moment he plunged into the river in a desperate attempt to undo what he’d done. Perhaps even before that, in his heart of hearts. He’d pushed this far in spite of himself, in spite of his misgivings, in spite of the weight around his heart every time he thought of his task and her death.
He should have felt even heavier now – for if she did not die, then he must. If he saved her life he was only betraying his Brothers and condemning himself to death. He should have felt full of dread and horror at what was to come as he watched her chest rise and fall with every painful breath.
But he did not. He felt only a fierce determination that she would not die, not if his actions could save her.
‘Rosa,’ he said, though he did not know if she could hear. His voice was hoarse with tears and shouting. ‘Rosa, can you hear me? This is going to hurt, but I’ll get you out of here, I promise. And someone at the house’ll be able to heal you.’
He put his hands beneath her armpits, the black habit gaping, and he heaved.
As her body slithered up the bank she gave a rattling gasp that might have been pain, or shock, or just the mechanical effect of her ribcage lifting with the pull.
‘I’m sorry.’ He gritted his teeth and pulled again, her body slipping up the rutted, muddy bank, her boots knocking against tree roots and stones. ‘I’m sorry.’
At the top he laid her on the grass bank and put his forehead against hers, her cold flesh chill against his hot sweating skin.
For a minute he knelt there, feeling his heart pounding, and the weak pointless tears scratching at the back of his eyes.
Then he put his arms around her, beneath her armpits and her knees, and very carefully, as carefully as he could, he picked her up, holding her against his chest, trying not to disturb the piece of whalebone sticking out of her lung. She was not heavy, in spite of the soaked habit that trailed on the grass. Without the drag of her soaked clothing she would have been no burden at all.
He began to walk, stumbling over tussocks and molehills.
‘Don’t die,’ he found himself whispering in time with his trudging steps and thumping heart. ‘Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die.’ Then, as he stumbled again, ‘Damn.’
What had he done?
Her cheek was cold against his chest – and he could not tell if her body was cooling, or if it was just the contrast with his own body, hot from toiling across the rutted field. He turned through the gap in the hedge into the lane where the going was easier, but he was panting now, his breath coming hoarse and hard, and Rosa felt twice as heavy as when he first pulled her into his arms.
‘Don’t die.’
Was she still breathing? There was fresh blood on her lips but that might just have dribbled out as he carried her. His heart was thumping so hard he could not feel any pulse from her.
‘Don’t die.’
Saints in heaven – how could he ever have thought she was light? His arms were ready to tear from their sockets. His legs felt like wool. He almost tripped as a rutted puddle barred the way across the road and the cold water soaked his legs, but he pushed on grimly. There was nothing else he could do.
‘Don’t die.’
At last �
� the gate into the Southing drive. He stumbled on to the gravel, crunching across the wide expanse in front of the house with legs that trembled and staggered up the steps to the drawing-room French windows, the closest entrance to the house. He had no hand free to pound on the glass so he kicked with his boots instead, pounding at the frame so that the doors shook against the wood.
‘Let me in!’ he bellowed. ‘There’s been an accident; she’s dying.
There was no answer. He had a sudden, horrible realization – the whole house was out hunting. The servants had all been despatched to take the hunt breakfast to the spinney. What if there was no one here?
‘Open up!’ Luke roared in despair. ‘For the love of God, please, please somebody come and help me.’
And then he saw a figure making its way slowly across the drawing room.
‘Open up!’ he shouted. ‘Hurry!’
It was a girl – one of the servants or one of the family, he couldn’t tell, but why in God’s name was she moving so slowly, so deliberately? She was picking her way through the furniture as if she was walking in a mist.
‘Are you deaf?’ he cried, his voice close to a sob. ‘Open up, I said. It’s Miss Greenwood, she’s dying.’
‘I’m not deaf.’ He heard the voice through the glass as the girl reached him, her beautiful cornflower-blue eyes looking up at him as she struggled with the lock. ‘I’m blind.’
The door gave and he stumbled into the room, muddy boots and bloody clothes leaving a trail of filth and blood on the Persian rug.
‘What’s happened to her?’ the girl asked, her voice sharp. ‘I can feel she’s nearly gone.’
‘She had—’ Luke’s voice stuck in his throat. How could he say an accident, when it was anything but?
He put Rosa down carefully on the chaise, her body a crumpled rag, her magic a thin wisp of flame so slight he could hardly tell it was there. The girl knelt beside the chair, her head bowed. Her fingers hovered over Rosa’s face, touching her bruised blue skin, and then trailed down to where the whalebone stuck like a stiletto dagger between her ribs.
‘Don’t!’ he gasped, as her fingers reached it, but she didn’t falter, didn’t jerk it or knock it, just felt very delicately around the wound, a frown between her narrow silver brows.
‘This is very bad,’ she said at last. ‘It’s beyond me. But the others are all out. The hunt . . .’
‘I know,’ he snapped. ‘How d’you think this happened?’
The girl frowned again, then she seemed to make up her mind.
‘There’s nothing for it,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to fetch Mama.’
The wait seemed endless. Luke knelt beside Rosa’s body, listening to the water dripping slowly from her habit and the slow gasp and bubble of her breath. Each time she let go another painful breath he felt sure that it must be the last. No one could keep fighting against the inevitable like this. Each time the silence stretched a little longer. But every time, just as the despair rose in his chest, her ribs heaved up and another gurgling rasp came from her lips.
If he closed his eyes he could see the flame of her magic against his lids – like a candle in the darkness. It was low – so low he could hardly see it any longer. In his mind he cupped his hands around it, nursing it as he would have nursed an ember in the forge fire, blowing gently, keeping it from harm, until it had the power to flare up into the consuming blaze he knew it could be.
Another gasp.
And wait.
Another gasp.
And wait. And wait. And wait . . .
His fingers found hers, clenching them, willing her to keep going.
Her hand was cold.
Another gasp.
And then the door opened.
‘Come inside, Mama,’ he heard. ‘You’re quite safe.’
‘No! I mustn’t!’ It was a hoarse, gasping whimper. ‘Sebastian . . . Your father . . .’
‘You’re quite safe, Papa’s not here. Nor is Sebastian – he’s hunting.’
‘They said I must not . . . They will take me back . . .’
‘No they won’t. I will have you back in your room and they will never know. Come now, just a few paces more. And look – here is the girl. You remember? The girl I told you about. She needs your help.’
Luke looked up. A woman was standing in the middle of the room. She was in her forties, perhaps. If this was Sebastian’s mother she must have been a child when she had him – no older than Rosa. She was wearing a white nightgown spattered with the faint shadow of stains, carefully laundered but not quite removed. There were burn marks on her hands and arms, as if she’d held them over a candle, or scalded herself on a hot grate. Her black hair was wild and matted and hung round her thin white face. She must have been very beautiful once – she had the clear blue eyes of Sebastian and the blind girl.
Her magic was terrifying. A wild black blaze of hate.
‘No . . .’ She was shaking her head, even as the girl led her coaxingly across the floor. ‘No, no, no, no, no . . .’
And then she saw Rosa and she stopped.
‘See?’ the girl said. ‘This is why. You must heal her, Mama.’
Luke was shaking his head before he could stop himself, in an echo of the witch-woman’s frightened repetitive denial. Nothing good could come from this woman – there was darkness in her face and in her magic.
‘Listen . . .’ He touched the girl’s arm. ‘This can’t be right . . . Can’t you—’
‘No,’ the girl said firmly. ‘That’s not my gift. I’m sorry. But I can see – I can see she will live. Mama will heal her. Mama . . .’ She stroked her hands over her mother’s hair and Luke saw the magic pouring from her fingers, soothing and gentling and coaxing along with her words. ‘Mama, you can do this. Please. Please.’
‘Did he do this?’ the woman asked, her eyes wide and full of fear. For a moment Luke’s heart froze – had she seen inside him so easily, read his mind? But the girl was shaking her head.
‘It wasn’t Sebastian, Mama. It was nothing to do with him. Just an accident. But please, Mama, hurry . . .’
The woman said nothing and Luke felt his fists clench. To have this power – and to refuse to use it . . .
‘Please,’ he said roughly.
He wasn’t sure if she even heard him. She did not turn to look at him.
But then she spoke.
‘Lig biseach di.’
The words were strange and hot and full of power – rolling off her tongue like boiling metal in the forge.
‘Lig di bheith ar aon léi féin.’
Luke did not understand them – but he felt their heat as they passed, the scorching blaze of their power.
‘Lig biseach di.’
The witch-woman put out her hands towards Rosa and he saw the power flooding out of her, like a river of dark fire. Rosa seemed bathed in it, consumed by it, burnt up by its brilliance.
The woman took a step forwards and then, with one swift horrible movement, she yanked at the whalebone, pulling the shard out from between Rosa’s ribs so that the blood sprayed across the room in a shower of scarlet flame.
‘Suaimhneas ort!’ she screamed.
She staggered back, falling to the Persian rug, her hands over her face.
She’s failed, Luke thought dully. She’s mad. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.
And then . . . and then Rosa opened her eyes.
Luke stared down at her. She was lying on her back, the habit gaping open, and where the whalebone had been the skin was white and whole. Her ribs were streaked with blood, but there was no sign of the gaping bloody hole that had split the skin just a minute before.
For a minute Rosa looked from one face to another as if she were quite bewildered.
Her eyes dilated almost to
black and then back to golden brown as they adjusted to the light in the room.
Then she coughed, spitting up blood on to the back of her hand.
‘Cassie?’ she managed croakily.
‘Hello, Rosa.’ Cassie smiled, her serious face suddenly transformed.
‘Wh-who’s this?’ Rosa’s eyes went from Cassie to the wild witch-woman and back.
‘My mother,’ Cassie said.
‘Your mother?’ Rosa pulled herself to sitting on the chaise. Then she looked down at herself and her pale skin flushed scarlet. ‘Oh!’
For a moment she struggled, ineffectually trying to pull the two halves of her butchered corset back together. Then, as if a spell were broken, Luke remembered his manners and where he was and who he was supposed to be.
‘H-here,’ he stammered. ‘Here, Miss G-Greenwood. Take my jacket.’
She took his jacket and clutched it to her breast, her cheeks flaming as red as her hair.
‘You had an accident,’ Cassie said. ‘This man saved you – he carried you up to the house.’
‘I remember . . .’ Rosa said slowly. She put her hand to her head. ‘I remember . . . We were on the bridge . . . the river . . . there was a cracking sound . . .’ Then her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Cherry!’ She looked up at Luke and her eyes were wide and full of fear. ‘Luke, where’s Cherry? Is she all right?’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ His voice broke and he couldn’t find the words to say anything else. He could only repeat the words, pathetically, pointlessly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
She said nothing. But her eyes filled with tears.
‘No . . .’ was all she said. ‘No.’
‘I’m sorry, Rosa.’ Cassie knelt by her side and took Rosa’s muddy, bloodstained hand in her small white one. ‘But you are alive – and you have Luke to thank for that.’
But Rosa was crying, great gulping sobs that seemed to be tearing her up from inside.
‘I know I should be grateful,’ she wept. ‘I am grateful – but oh, Cherry!’ She buried her face in her hands and he turned away. Luke swallowed, his throat sore and dry. It was more than he could bear.