Chapter 40
THEN
Emory found his way home somehow. He reached Milburn Hall in the early hours of the morning, exhausted.
All was dark, the servants not yet having started work; the fire would be burning low and the place would feel eerie and empty.
And he did not want to encounter his brother again that night.
In fact, he did not want to encounter him ever again.
No. He reminded himself that man was not his brother. He never had been. The two men tolerated one another for their father’s sake, scared of the whipping they’d receive if they baulked against the arrangement.
But now – Emory wanted nothing more to do with Charles Milburn.
He could not face it and he could not face him. The way he felt, he would kill the man without a second thought.
Emory laughed suddenly. He was a murderer! He had already killed someone! It had been easy and he felt no compassion for Nicholson.
He would feel nothing for Charles either.
No. He could not trust himself to enter that house again.
He would go to Meg’s, and sleep in her bed and remember how it had been between the two of them.
He dismounted the horse and slapped its flanks, giving it permission to go to the stables as he turned and walked down the driveway and across the cold fields towards Meg’s cottage.
He pushed the door open and looked around, hoping that this had all been a nightmare and she would appear out of those shadows and welcome him to her.
Then, by a glimmer of moonlight through the tiny window, he caught sight of the blood on his clothing and on his hands and on the dagger, and he knew that Nicholson was dead and that he had caused it.
‘Good riddance,’ Emory hissed. He looked around for the pitcher of water Meg always kept close to the fire and washed his hands and the dagger in it.
There was one more thing he had to do. He would destroy Meg’s book, so nobody could come and find it and use it.
Meg was special; she had been taught how to use nature properly.
But if anyone decided to come and ransack her house and look for the things she had written or find out her secrets, they could cause harm, even if they didn’t mean to.
And if he destroyed that book, nobody else could be wrongly accused of being a witch.
A ragged sob caught in his throat at the unfairness of it.
‘I’m so sorry, Meg,’ he said. But he didn’t know what he was apologising for.
Maybe it was for giving her the name that had condemned her in the first place.
Maybe it was for what had happened to her.
Maybe it was because he had not been there to protect her when he should have.
Maybe it was for all that and more.
He found the book under the flagstone, and took it over to the fireplace.
He dropped it onto the embers and watched as the flames caught, then took the poker and pushed it as far into the fire as he could.
He could have wept – Meg’s work, her grandmother’s work, everything that had been handed down to her, everything that had helped the village – all destroyed. Burning in a fire at his hands.
But it was for the best.
Then he stumbled over to Meggie’s straw mattress and fell onto the bed, fully dressed. He would sleep, surrounded by the scent of lavender and herbs, and dream of Meggie.
Then when he was ready, he would go back to her. Back to the Well and find her again.
And somewhere in the darkest hours, he dreamed that she was back; that she stood over him and reached out, that she touched his face and leant over him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Just be with me,’ Emory said in his dream. ‘Be with me. Or let me be with you.’