And then there was nothing at all.

14

Luke was near enough to hear the crack of the wood as it gave and the scream of the horse.

‘Rosa!’ he shouted desperately.

There was a flurry of black skirts, like a bird shot in flight, and Rosa’s magic blazed out bright as a flame, as she fought to save them both. And then she was gone.

Luke skidded to a halt on Bumblebee, scrambling from the saddle almost before the horse had stopped. His whole body was shaking as he ran to the river bank and began sliding down the muddy chute towards the rushing waters. Oh Christ, what had he done?

He saw, before he even reached the water’s edge.

Cherry lay in the stream, impaled on one of the broken shafts of the bridge. It had gone clean through her ribcage and she was dead already, Luke could see it in the way she lay, limp, unresisting, and the way the stream below her had turned scarlet with the gushing blood.

‘Oh God.’

He knew, suddenly and certainly, that he’d done a terrible, terrible thing.

‘Rosa!’ he shouted. No answer came but the roar of the waters. Then he saw something, a red-gold flame beneath Cherry’s dappled back. She was there, pinned beneath the horse.

‘Help me!’ he roared, slipping and sliding down into the water. The hunt was not that far away; he could hear the sound of the horn and the baying of the hounds. ‘For God’s sake, someone help me!’

He could not swim. He’d never learnt. But he struck out anyway into the middle of the river, grabbing on to the beams of the bridge to try to keep his footing, clutching at anything – the pikes, Cherry’s bridle, even her mane.

In the middle of the stream he hooked his arm around a wooden pile and pushed with all his strength at the horse, putting his shoulders and every muscle into shifting its bulk just an inch or two higher up the wooden shaft. His fingers groped beneath the creaming water, feeling for Rosa’s body. She was there. But he could not move her.

‘Cherry,’ he gasped, heaving at the horse’s unresisting bulk until his joints cracked and his muscles tore and screamed with protest. And all the time the waters tugged and tugged at him, trying to pull his feet from under him and sweep him away to drown too.

‘God damn you, Rosa!’ His breath sobbed in his chest. His face was wet with river water and sweat and tears. ‘You’ll not die. Hear me? You’re not to die!’

He braced his feet against a rock in the torrent and heaved again at Cherry’s warm, dead weight, her blood running down over his shoulders and swirling into the water in a crimson slick.

She shifted – or maybe it was the pike in the river bed. Something gave a minute amount, and when he felt under the water for Rosa’s body, it didn’t come free but it moved.

Heat flooded back into his numb fingers and he heaved again at Cherry’s side, bracing his shoulders against her ribs and scrabbling for Rosa beneath the churning red water.

She moved again, an inch or two further from beneath Cherry’s hind quarters. One more heave – and she slid free with a rush so that he stumbled and almost fell into the current. Only his grip on Cherry’s bridle saved them both, and then he struck out for the bank, hauling Rosa in his wake, a drowned black rat.

At the bank he pulled her on to the muddy shore, heaving her clear of the tugging waters, and leant her body gently against the twisted roots of a tree. She lay there, painfully still, painfully white, her head at a strange, unnatural angle. But when he put his ear to her breast he could hear a beat and a wet gurgle – or thought he could. He willed her to cough – but she didn’t. He would have given anything for a thimbleful of witchcraft. No matter if it damned him to hell for all eternity, he would have paid the price if it meant he could save her. But he was powerless – and so was she.

For a moment Luke stood frozen in indecision. Then he began scrambling up the bank towards the bridge. At the top he shaded his eyes, looking after the riders. They were almost gone. Only one rider and horse stood in silhouette on the ridge: Sebastian. He would have known that beautiful thoroughbred anywhere and the arrogant set of the rider’s shoulders. Sebastian could save her. He was a witch, wasn’t he?

‘Knyvet!’ he bellowed, the words whipped and torn by the autumn breeze. Sebastian turned his head as if he’d heard something, but wasn’t sure what. ‘Knyvet!’ Luke shouted again, his voice cracking with the effort. ‘Come back! There’s been an accident. Rosa – she’s dying!’

For a moment he thought Sebastian had heard him. His horse took two steps downhill, towards the river.

‘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.