BooksBarbecue
Back The Hollows
Chapters (77)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Dedication
  5. PART I
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. PART II
  15. 9.
  16. 10.
  17. 11.
  18. 12.
  19. 13.
  20. 14.
  21. 15.
  22. 16.
  23. 17.
  24. 18.
  25. 19.
  26. 20.
  27. 21.
  28. 22.
  29. 23.
  30. 24.
  31. 25.
  32. 26.
  33. 27.
  34. 28.
  35. 29.
  36. 30.
  37. 31.
  38. 32.
  39. 33.
  40. 34.
  41. 35.
  42. 36.
  43. PART III
  44. 37.
  45. 38.
  46. 39.
  47. 40.
  48. 41.
  49. 42.
  50. 43.
  51. 44.
  52. 45.
  53. 46.
  54. 47.
  55. 48.
  56. 49.
  57. 50.
  58. 51.
  59. 52.
  60. 53.
  61. 54.
  62. 55.
  63. 56.
  64. 57.
  65. 58.
  66. 59.
  67. 60.
  68. 61.
  69. 62.
  70. 63.
  71. 64.
  72. 65.
  73. PART IV
  74. 66.
  75. 67.
  76. 68.
  77. Acknowledgements

It was very dim now, with grey and black clouds overhead. The air was icy and the grey dusk filled it, leaching colour from grass and snow, clothes and faces. Everything faded to grey; outlines lost their definition and began to blur. Torches were switched on and the campfires were lit – small ones marking the boundary, larger ones in the centre – to push the shadows back with their warm yellow and orange glow. Light and heat to get them through the cold night and all that inhabited it.

For now, Milly was calm. All that could be done had been. And she was who she was: Millicent Abigail Emmanuel, healer. That was all that mattered now; all she could still control. Her skills would be in demand soon enough, for all the good they’d do. She could only pray now: for help, for grace, for mercy, whether or not anyone was listening, whether or not it did any good. And when the enemy came and the fighting began, she’d care for the wounded until she no longer could. Whether it proved futile or not; whether or not the sun rose.

56.

56.

They marched stiffly down the hill road, Jess leading the way. It was iced over in places, treacherous to walk on; the snow-covered ground of the Height and the fields of Barrowman Farm, rock-hard and uneven though they’d be, would be safer.

Ellie dug her phone out as they came off the road onto the Height; the others paused, knocking snow off the picnic tables, to sit and rest for a minute or two, but she pressed on to the safety railings at the edge.

The fields were white, and the road; shrouds of snow half-hid the gutted shells of the Bell and Wakeman Farm. Thursdale was pale and silent in the cradling embrace of Slapelow Hill, Spear Bank and Wakeman’s Edge, tapering up towards the path to Fendmoor. The blotched grey clouds were infinite and empty; pale rags of sun peered through gaps in the western sky. Ellie waited, listening for a car, an aircraft, but there was nothing but the wind.

Her phone’s screen was dim; in the top right-hand corner, a lone exclamation mark warned the battery was almost dead. Even if she could make a call, the thing would die on her almost as soon as anyone answered the phone. But there were no signal bars anyway. She’d expected as much, but she’d had to try.

Ellie was tempted to toss the phone away, but stuffed it in her pocket instead. One last link with the world she’d known until last night.