Chapter 36
THEN
Emory had finished the carafe of wine his brother had started and ransacked the cabinet for more alcohol afterwards. He had drank while staring into the fire, willing himself to feel Meggie’s presence near to him, but try as he might, he couldn’t sense her at all.
But as the flames jumped and danced in the grate, he couldn’t help but imagine her being in the midst of a pyre up by the Well.
Did she know anything about it? Had they strangled the life out of her, cutting off her airwaves to prevent her from allegedly spitting out curses on them as they stabbed her again and again?
The amount of bloodstains on the snow gave that impression.
He knew Meg. She would have been praying to the goddess, or to the nature spirits for help; she would not have been cursing people!
And the babe – oh God, the babe! Had it known anything of it?
He dipped his head and held it in his hands, sobbing for the life that might have been.
He remembered her face when she’d told him, how her eyes had shone with love and how they’d held each other tight, and he’d made love to her slowly and carefully, frightened she might break.
He remembered the new curves he had seen in her naked body, the firmness of her belly as she’d guided his hand to it and pressed his palm flat against it, just as it was beginning to become evident to the world that she was with child. With his child. With their child…
Whenever Emory closed his eyes, he imagined what had happened to her by the Well that day. He tried to keep his eyes open, fighting against them closing, but at some point, he must have drifted off.
He listened for her voice when he awoke, but it did not come.
‘Meggie, please, talk to me,’ he murmured. ‘Reassure me, show me where you are…’ He looked around, imagining her moving around the room, standing over him. Touching his face again. Surely she would not leave him? Surely she would stay with him somehow?
Otherwise what was the point of his existence?
But the room was empty.
Emory dragged himself up to a sitting position and peered at the clock by the light of the guttering fire and the candles. It had just gone six in the evening.
He threw more logs on the fire, leaning towards it, trying to rub some life into his hands. He caught the cut the dagger had made and swore as he opened the wound again. Meggie would have given him a salve for that, he warranted. Maybe something with honey or comfrey in it…
He held his hand in front of his face and turned it slowly, the red glistening in the firelight. He was aware of the weight of the dagger in his pocket and a thought slowly curled into his mind.
Nicholson. That was the name he’d heard from his brother’s lips. Cuthbert Nicholson.
Where could Nicholson be?
The Witch Pricker may well have moved on by now, but…
‘The Head Inn!’ Hadn’t Charles said Nicholson was there?
Emory knew the place well. He had been there on numerous occasions. He knew the interior as well as the exterior, knew the place from the stables to the rooftop and back again.
He also knew what he would do.
It would not bring her back, but he would have his revenge.
Again, he felt the weight of the dagger in his waistband.
His hand sought it as he continued to stare into the distance and the dark thoughts whirled around his mind, throwing images of Meg’s murder at him, spiralling until he could stand it no longer.
His fingers closed around the handle. He knew exactly what he would do tonight and where he was headed.