The parson tapped his hat and led the crowd. Daniel dug his knees into the horse’s side and she galloped down the hill, air racing past so fast it stole his breath and chilled his skin, clinging so hard his fingers and arms burned. The house was saved. He would find Sarah before the villagers returned. If he survived the ride. And the wrath of the village should they discover his warning, and turn their rage and torches upon him.

Soft-skinned, Soft-hearted

I know they’re all drinking and dancing at the green, but still I quicken my steps. Curse John and his eager fist.

Empty street, silent but for the cry of gulls. The sea a vast black bulk, white waves gleaming in the moonlight; boats rest quiet in the harbour, creaking in the breeze.

The blood is black and drying. Teeth gone. I have looked, I’m free to leave.

A sound of clattering fills the night, hooves on the dirt track. I turn and see Daniel Taylor and his horse. A wild pair, his face streaked with blood and mud, her eyes rolling and mouth frothing. I cannot make sense of them.

He brings the horse up to me, so close I see and smell the sweat darkening her hair, and reaches a hand down. His fingers are stained with soil, a mark of outdoor work that no scrubbing will remove.

I don’t know why he is here, nor what drives him to reach for me. Soft-skinned, soft-hearted man that knows only a simple life of work and food and sleep in a bed with cotton sheets.

The only person to know my name who does not share it.

I take his hand, unexpectedly strong as it closes around mine. He pulls and I half-slide, half-scramble up the horse’s side until I sit in front of him, petticoat bunched under me, his arm tight around my waist. A solid, warm touch, the like of which I’ve never known.

‘Hold on,’ he says and I grasp the horse’s mane as he does with his free hand. He kicks and we are moving. I fear I will be flung to my death. As soon as I surrender my will to his I regret it.

I am feared, though not as much as I should be. We turn from the village towards the beck and I wonder what he means to do with me there. If he lays a hand on me I shall curse him with worse than sores.

At the bank, the river lilting dark and gleaming beside us, he climbs down and holds a hand out to me. I bat him away, annoyed that he thinks I need help, and then find myself unable to follow. He offers his hand again, I refuse it again, then launch myself to the ground and fall into him. The night is cooling and he is warm. I pull away, brush down my rumpled petticoat.