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.

15

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.

A low moan came from behind him and he turned. It was the witch-woman, Cassie’s mother. Cassie was on her feet and at her side in an instant.

‘Mama?’

‘Take me away . . . They’re coming back.’

‘Not yet, Mama.’

‘Take me back upstairs!’ Her voice rose to a kind of scream and Cassie jumped and turned her head nervously, as if listening out for servants or horses.

‘All right, Mama, I’ll take you.’ She turned to Rosa. ‘Can you manage for a moment, Rosa? My mother is not well, as you see.’

‘Don’t do it,’ the witch-woman cried as Cassie led her from the room. ‘I can see it in your heart – you will regret it for ever. Take the other path – that one will break you.’

Luke stared after her. Was she talking to him or Rosa?

Rosa watched her go too, her tear-stained face turned to the door long after Cassie and her mother had left. Then she turned back to Luke.

‘How did she die?’

‘One of the broken struts of the bridge through the heart,’ he managed, though his throat was sore with grief. ‘It was quick. She knew nothing.’

She pressed her lips together. Her face was very pale, the nutmeg dust freckles standing out against her skin. She closed her eyes, her lashes making dark circles against her cheeks, the tears squeezing out from beneath. Luke fought against the crazed impulse to take her in his arms as he had that night in the stable. But he had no right to comfort her – not just because of who he was, but because of what he’d done.

‘P-perhaps it’s b-better this way,’ she managed at last. ‘My first pony, Willowherb, when she grew old Alexis had her sold to the knacker’s yard, to make meat for dogs. I wouldn’t have wanted that for Cherry.’

‘No,’ he said. His voice was as rough and hoarse as hers, though his tears were unshed. ‘No. She died quick. She died happy.’

Happy? He remembered Cherry’s scream as she felt the boards going out from under her and he shut his own eyes, though nothing could shut out the memory of her skewered body and that terrible, whinnying shriek.

‘She died happy,’ he repeated, his voice hard with anger at himself, at the lies.

‘You’d better see to your horse,’ Rosa said. Luke looked out of the open French doors, to where Bumblebee was nibbling the Virginia creeper that twined around the windows. He must have followed them home. Luke should have been relieved to see him, relieved that at least Bumblebee’s safety wasn’t on his conscience too. But he could feel no relief at all.

‘Yes.’ He rubbed his face. ‘All right. And Brimstone’ll be back by now, I shouldn’t wonder. Mr Greenwood will be wondering where I am.’

‘I wonder how long it will take him to notice his sister’s absence,’ Rosa said bitterly.

‘Miss Greenwood . . .’ he started. He didn’t know what he was about to say. That she deserved better. That she didn’t have to live this life, trapped by her mother’s rapacious ambition and her brother’s greed, despised by both of them. But it was not true. There was no escape for her, any more than for him. They were both trapped, each in their own cage.

‘Yes?’ She looked up at him from the sofa, her small, pale face spattered with mud and blood. Her golden-brown eyes were dull.

‘Nothing.’

He turned to go.

‘Wait.’

She had dragged herself to sitting. He stopped, his chest rising and falling as hers was too, beneath his wet, bloodstained coat.

‘Yes?’ he said, more harshly than he meant.

‘I-I . . .’ she stammered, and then stopped.

‘What?’

He ought to be sacked for speaking to his mistress like that – he would be, if anyone else heard. But she only shook her head angrily.

‘Nothing.’

Then as he turned again to go, ‘No, Luke, wait.’

She grabbed his shirt at his shoulder, pulling him down to her height, and he felt her lips, shockingly soft and warm against his cheek, and the slim strength of her arm around his neck in a fierce, almost angry embrace.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. ‘Thank you. I owe you my life. I will never forget that.’

She let go and he was left gasping, hot with desire and shame.

For witchcraft comes from lust, that carnal desire which in women is insatiable. He heard the words inside his head, as clear as if John Leadingham had spoken them, as he turned and stumbled out of the French doors and across the gravel drive.

Whose lust?

He thought of himself ripping open Rosa’s clothes, trying not to look, yet looking even as he tried to turn away. Even as he retched at the sight of the whalebone slicing between her ribs, he had looked. He had not been able to help himself.

He did not look back to see if she were still watching him. He could not look back. He grabbed at Bumblebee’s reins, and led him away.

Rosa watched Luke go and then she sank back on the sofa, her head in her hands. She was tired to the bone. Every part of her ached with weariness. Somewhere beneath the exhaustion she knew that her clothes were covered in blood, that her good corset was butchered, that beneath Luke’s jacket her breasts were bare. But she did not know if she had the energy to do anything about it. Now that Luke had gone none of it seemed to matter.

She knew she should feel shame at the thought of him pulling her from the river, pulling apart her clothes. But she didn’t. She would be dead if he hadn’t. So – he had seen her naked. That was the least of it. He had seen Sebastian’s mother, full of madness. And he had watched her heal Rosa’s wound in front of him. An outwith. And he had seen their power.

What had she done?

‘Rosa?’ The voice was soft.

Rosa’s head jerked up. Cassandra was standing in the doorway, her face worried.

‘Rosa, are you quite well?’

Rosa laughed. It sounded bitter in her own ears.

‘Quite well. Quite well unless you count almost drowning beneath my horse. Quite well apart from being cold, wet and bloodstained.’

She shivered, and Cassie came across and took her hand.

‘Your fingers are like ice.’ She touched Rosa’s forehead. ‘Heavens! You have a fever. Let’s get you upstairs and into bed.’

Rosa found she was very tired. Her legs shook as she stood.

‘Yes please,’ she said. Her voice was strange and far away. ‘I would like that very much.’

‘Rosa . . .’ Cassie’s voice was urgent in her ear as she helped Rosa stand. ‘Rosa, you must never, never speak of what my mother did. Do you understand?’

‘I . . .’ Rosa found her head was swimming. This strangeness was too much. ‘Why – why not?’