Gabriel snorted. ‘It’s well you’re hid away from the village here, you’re too soft for the lives of ordinary folk. There’s a demon loose down there, one of they devils, I don’t doubt, and each night changing form to a different animal, and bringing terrible fate to any it choose, and Sam and Nelly more than any, they’s saying. He’s not fit to work, even now.’ He had stopped to wipe his brow. ‘You should take more thought, all in the village is using witch marks and jars. Happen you’ll need protection here too.’

Daniel had not dwelt on his words, convincing himself they were rooted in no more than Gabriel’s hatred of the Haworths. But seeing the dread and suspicion the magistrate stirred tonight unnerved him. He felt more keenly the danger of his plan; should Sarah be exposed, the village would certainly condemn her as a witch, believing she had tricked them all.

Behind him, a shout of ‘papist’ rose, and the responding cry of fear and denial had him turning to see some scuffling. He did not recognise those involved.

At the edge of his eye that movement came again, the quiet shift of cloth at the doorway of the farmhouse. He hesitated, caught between his desire to protect, and the need to see Sarah. Parson Walsh hurried past, to where the commotion continued. One man, moving to protect the innocent.

Streak of Silt

I run along the edge of the water, laughing at the chill on my bare feet and legs. Daniel chases after, lifts and spins me round so that my toes make a circle of ripples.

He sets me down and I stand calf-deep, the bottom of my petticoat floating.

‘Oh, look what you’ve done.’ I strike his arm. ‘I’m wet.’

‘You’re standing in the river, did you suppose you’d stay dry?’

‘I held my clothes up, this is your doing, and on purpose, I think.’

‘I beg your forgiveness, lady,’ he says, smiling. ‘If that is your wish, so be it.’

He kneels at my feet, gasping as the water hits his waist, and gathers my dripping petticoat, holds it up to me. Places his free hand on my bare leg, at the back of my knee. Turns his face up to me, and I look down at him, feel his touch warm through the cold water, calloused hand against smooth skin. We stay silent a moment.

I laugh. Take the wet cloth from him, slap his shoulder with it. Shaking just a little. ‘Goffy,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘You know – goffy. You’re puddled.’ He looks at me blankly. ‘A fool,’ I say.

‘As I believe you’ve mentioned before.’ He stands. ‘You are in danger of repeating yourself.’

‘Nay, you’re the one in danger, for all this cheek.’