Witch Hunt (Witch Finder 2) (9 page)

‘Here, get that put up in your mother’s bar, will you?’ he said, and then turned his horse around and cantered out of the yard.

Rosa was about to call after him that she was a guest, not his errand girl, when her eye fell on the page. It was a poster.

She crumpled the paper in her fist, her heart beating. Then slowly she edged the shawl further up around her face, trying to hide her bright, incriminating hair. It seemed almost impossible that the man should have failed to notice, failed to make the connection. Thank God she had not spoken.

The sound of hooves came again, from the other corner of the yard, and her heart quickened horribly until she thought she might throw up, there on the straw of the yard.

But as the rider turned the corner she saw, with a great lurch of relief, that it was Luke.

‘Rosa?’ Luke stared down at her from Brimstone’s high back. ‘What’s happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

For a moment she could not speak, she only scrabbled desperately for a hold on Brimstone’s saddle, until Luke grabbed her arm and hauled her up in front of him.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked again. ‘You’re shaking.’

‘I’ll tell you in a moment,’ she managed, and she gave Brimstone a kick that set the poor horse into motion with an indignant lurch. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’

‘Hair dye!’ laughed the young lady behind the counter. She put her hand to her own beautifully sculpted coiffure. ‘What’s that for then?’

‘That’s my business,’ Luke said uncomfortably. He felt in his pocket for the shillings that rattled there. Already the cache felt uncomfortably lighter than last night.

‘Surely you’re too young to be going grey?’ the girl said. She looked up at him through lowered lashes, her eyes sparkling.

‘As the gentleman said, that’s his business, Millicent!’ barked a man from further up the counter. He came down and put a small box in front of Luke. ‘I do apologize, sir. Young ladies like their joke. Will this shade do, sir?’

Luke looked at the box. It was called ‘Autumn Gold’ and a coloured spot on the lid showed an odd clay-like beige.

‘I’d like it a bit darker if you have it, please.’

‘In that case . . .’ He rummaged in a cupboard behind his head and then turned back with a second little box. ‘Try Beech Grove, sir. Gives a lovely mahogany tone.’

‘And how do I – you know . . .’ Luke wished the stupid girl behind the counter would stop making eyes and laughing at him from behind her hand. He wanted to sink through the floor. ‘How do you put it on?’

‘Make a paste with a little water, rub it on and then wash off after half an hour. It will stain clothing while it’s wet, so we recommend drying the hair thoroughly before dressing.’

‘Thanks.’ Luke took the box. The spot on the top looked mud-coloured, which was probably as good as they were going to get. ‘How much?’

‘One and thruppence.’

Christ. Luke nearly groaned aloud. Another chip off their precious stash. He pushed the coins across the counter and pocketed the small box, and then strode bad-temperedly across the town square and down to the river where Rosa was waiting.

Brimstone was still grazing in the field where Luke had left him, but there was no sign of Rosa as he crossed the stone bridge to the far side of the shore. He was just getting worried when her small worried face peered out from beneath its shadow.

‘Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge? Ain’t that what you’re supposed to say?’ he called down. It was a thin enough attempt at a joke, but she was smiling as he slid down the bank to join her by the shallows.

‘Are you saying I look like a troll?’

‘About as much as I look like a billy-goat gruff. Bad news. We’re another shilling down.’

‘A shilling!’ Rosa was scandalized. ‘Is that how much hair dye costs?’

‘I’ve no idea. I’m not in the habit of dying my hair. A shilling and thruppence, to be exact.’

‘I had no idea it would be so expensive. We’d better get our money’s worth. Should we do me first or him?’ She nodded up the bank at Brimstone. Luke bit his lip.

‘Dunno.’ He looked down at the packet. ‘It looks pretty small. Let’s do him first. I’m worried there won’t be enough to cover your hair.’

‘I might end up being cropped for a boy yet,’ Rosa said. Luke felt a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth.

‘You’ll need to ditch the corsets first.’

They squatted by the river’s edge, mixing the powder to a paste on a flat dipped stone. It smelt foul, and Rosa made a face as Luke stirred it with a stick.

‘If I were Brimstone I’d run a mile before I let you put that on my nose.’

‘First of all, you’ll be Brimstone in a second,’ he said. ‘And second, who says I’m the one daubing it on? I’ll be holding his head.’

Rosa pulled a face and, dipping her fingers into the gunk, made as if to swipe at Luke’s nose with it. Laughing, he scrambled up the bank.

‘You’ll have to be quicker than that. And be careful, that’s about half a shilling’s worth you’ve got there.’

She followed him up slowly, hampered by her skirts and only one free hand. Luke gave her his to pull her up the last few feet, and they walked together across the field to where Brimstone was grazing contentedly.

‘All right, me old mate.’ Luke caught him by the bridle and stood for a moment, petting his nose. Then he took a firm hold of his bridle and reins. ‘Go on then.’

Rosa took a breath, and stood on tiptoe to stroke the stinking gunk down Brimstone’s nose. To Luke’s surprise he stood quietly as she stroked it gently down, and when the white was completely covered he let go of the halter and the horse trotted off to graze in another corner of the field.

‘Blimey. He must have lost his sense of smell!’

‘I know.’ Rosa sniffed her fingers in distaste. ‘Me next, I suppose.’

‘Come on then. Let’s get it over with.’

They knelt together at the water’s edge and Rosa pulled the pins slowly out of her hair, letting it tumble down her back, rich and glorious, all the colours of fire and flame. Something in his chest swelled at the thought of staining it a muddy brown, and for a moment he hesitated, his hand hovering over the flat stone.

‘Wait,’ Rosa said.

‘What is it? Have you changed your mind?’ He was not sure if he was relieved, or angered. It was only hair, he told himself. It’d grow back.

‘I don’t want to stain this dress – well, stain it any worse, anyway. It already looks like I’ve been digging ditches in it, but it’s still silk and it might just be saleable.’ She was dabbling her hands in the river, washing off the last of the dye paste. Then she stood and began unhooking the front of her bodice.

Luke sat frozen, not certain whether to turn away or close his eyes. Instead he did neither, but just watched as she undid hook after hook, after hook.

A kind of coldness washed over him as he thought of how strangely similar this was to the last time they’d been by a river shore together, Rosa in his arms, a horse quietly grazing the bank above. Only then it had been him pulling apart her clothing in an attempt to undo what he’d done.

He remembered the bone sticking out of her corset, deep in her lung. He remembered the blood and the bubbling wound . . .

‘Luke?’ Rosa’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Luke? Are you all right? You’re very pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ he managed hoarsely.

She shrugged off the grey silk bodice and laid it carefully on a dry stone. Beneath, she was dressed in some kind of petticoat, and beneath that her corset and chemise, thin as gauze. Try as he might, Luke could not stop looking – at the softness of her pink-white shoulders, at the curve of her breast above the tightness of the stays, at the pristine unstained whiteness of her chemise, where before there had been nothing but spreading blood . . .

‘Ready?’

She knelt at the water’s edge, her head bowed, and pulled her hair apart at the nape, for all the world like a prisoner baring her neck for the executioner’s sword.

‘R-ready,’ Luke said, and to his fury he found that his voice shook as he said the single word.
It’s only hair
.

He picked up a handful of the dye, black and stinking, and for a minute he didn’t think he could bring himself to touch her.

‘Come on!’ Rosa’s voice came impatiently from beneath the shimmering curtain of hair. ‘I’m g-getting cold. It’s f-freezing with no clothes on.’

‘Sorry.’

He knelt behind her and touched his hand to her nape, where the fine hairs were red as fire, and the tendons of her neck rose and dipped. She shivered at his touch.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘The stuff’s cold, I know.’

‘Not half as cold as it’ll be rinsing it off. Be quick.’

He felt her shudder as he smeared it in.

‘Keep going,’ she said, her teeth gritted.

He put his fingers back into the black gloop and smoothed on another handful. And another. And then another, running his hands down the long, silky length of her hair, feeling it grow thick and clagged beneath his fingers.

‘R-rub it into the roots.’ Her teeth were chattering. ‘I d-don’t want a r-red p-parting.’

He pushed his fingers deep into the roots of her hair, rubbing her scalp, and she shuddered again, a long slow almost luxurious shudder, and he saw her fingers dig hard into the silk of her skirt as if she needed something to hold on to.

‘Lean back,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’ve got you, don’t worry.’

He piled her hair up in a heavy, gunk-filled mass and she tilted her head slowly upright so that he could smear the last of the dye on to her hairline, above her forehead.

‘Is it d-d-done?’ Her teeth were chattering so hard she could barely speak. Luke nodded.

‘Here, take my coat. You’ll perish.’ He held out the stiff woollen greatcoat and she pulled it on, but the shivering didn’t stop. Her cheeks had lost the angry red flush of cold and had gone bloodless white, and her lips were starting to look blue.

‘Rosa . . .’ He knelt beside her, shivering himself, now he was clad only in his shirtsleeves. ‘Rosa, you need to get warm. Use some magic.’

She didn’t speak, just nodded. Then she closed her eyes and he saw her lips begin to form a strange silent prayer, and felt the familiar mix of awe and horror shiver across his skin as he waited, watching for the flare of magic, the halo of fire crackling around her that would tell him the spell had worked.

It didn’t come. Rosa opened her eyes.

‘Luke, it’s not working. What’s happening?’

‘Try again,’ he said. But there was a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach and he knew, even before she tried, that it was not going to work. He could see there was nothing there. It was as if some vital fire in her had burnt out.

‘‘Luke w-what’s happening?’ Her cold shaking hand closed on his wrist. ‘What’s wrong with m-m-me?’

‘I don’t know.’ Suddenly he didn’t care about her hair any more. ‘Let’s get that muck off your hair and get you warmed up.’

She knelt again, shaking so hard now, even with his greatcoat on, that he had to hold her still with one hand while he poured water over her head from a tin can he’d found by the water’s edge. It was rusty and the water trickled from the holes in the side, making it hard to pour carefully. She gasped and flinched beneath his grip as the water ran down inside the collar of his coat. The river at the water’s edge turned muddy brown, and he poured and poured, and still the stream ran dark from her hair. At last he gave up and helped her stand.

‘Come on, you’ve had enough.’

She was blue and shaking, her hair like a drowned rat’s close to her head, dripping dark down his greatcoat.

‘W-w-what’s wrong with me, L-Luke?’

‘Shh, you’re cold, that’s all.’

‘It’s n-n-n . . .’ she tried, but she couldn’t finish. He pulled her up the bank into the thin winter sunshine, and helped her to sit, huddled with her back against a tree, her teeth chattering helplessly.

‘Rosa . . .’

He didn’t know how to say it. If he didn’t warm her, she would likely die, or catch her death of cold. But she was small and wet and unclothed, and he didn’t know how to ask her.

Instead he moved closer and put his arm around her, inside the coat. Her skin was cold and wet and she was shaking. He’d thought it would feel strange and wrong to touch her, but it did not. He pulled her close, as if she were Minna or some other small thing, and with shaking hands she tried to push the coat over his shoulders, so that it covered them both.

He felt one small, cold hand steal tentatively around his ribcage, making him shudder in sympathy and suck in his breath as her icy skin struck cold though the thin cotton of his shirt. Then slowly the heat of his body woke an echoing warmth in hers, and the shivering subsided, and they grew still together, huddled inside the rough shelter of his coat.

‘God, you’re nesh,’ he said.

‘I am not!’ Rosa’s indignant voice came from somewhere near his chest. ‘What does that mean anyway?’

He laughed at that, feeling it shake through them both.

‘You’re so ready to deny it before you even knew what I’d said? What if it was a compliment?’

‘It wasn’t. I could tell from your voice. Go on then, what does it mean?’

‘It means you’re a bit feeble – you can’t take the cold.’