The Memory of Snow by Kirsty Ferry Page B

but she never did. She tried
once more to speak to Alice’s mother, to explain what had happened, but the
door was slammed in her face. She snuck into the church for Alice’s funeral; a
place she had never visited before and never would again. A group of village
men spotted her sitting at the back, and manhandled her out of the building.
One of them clamped his hand over her mouth to stop her protesting, and another
pinned her arms against her side. Meggie was small and slim; it was not
necessary for four men to force her out and to contain her struggles. Meggie
felt sullied – the men had seemed to enjoy it in some horrible way. She could
smell them on her skin for hours; feel their fingers gripping into her flesh
and taste the hand that had covered her mouth. Lizzie was sitting three rows from
the front; she put her head down and clasped her hands together in prayer as
Meggie was thrown out. Meggie noticed her, and thought bitterly that the woman
was thanking God it wasn’t her body at the front of the church, lying in the
simple pine coffin by the altar. The coffin was so small, so tiny. Was Alice
really that size? For a moment, Meggie visualized her rounder and softer than
she had ever been, with another life curled up inside her. Once outside the
church, and in fact outside the stone boundary wall of the church where the men
had dragged her to, Meggie had slid to the ground howling uncontrollably. She
realised again that it wasn’t one life she’d taken, it was two. And Charles Hay
was living in blissful denial of this. He knew Alice was dead, of course he
did. But Meggie was certain he didn’t care one way or another.
    Meggie was right. On the day of Alice’s funeral, Charles was
in Newcastle on business with his father. They had met a gentleman by the name
of Cuthbert Nicholson in a local hostelry. This was the man who had become a
legend in Newcastle – twenty-seven witches had been identified by him. He was
the toast of the city. His methods were questionable, but his work thorough.
The witches had been hanged on the town moor and buried in St Andrew’s
churchyard with metal nails hammered into their knees to prevent them from
rising again. It was a necessary evil, Mr Nicholson had told them. Witches were
rife. He thought he would be asked to go to Scotland and the borders after
this; he had heard that there were some cases he needed to investigate up
there. Charles had smiled into his ale. Dear Meggie; he hoped she would steer
well clear of Mr Nicholson. He might need her services again in the future.
Although, having said that, the more he thought about Meggie, the more he
wondered what she would be like as a lover. She wasn’t the most beautiful girl
in the village, but he thought she had potential. She would be feeling rather
vulnerable after her friend’s sad demise as well. Perhaps she would welcome a
little chat with him. A little fun. It would take her mind off things, that was
certain.
    Yes, Charles Hay was in a rather positive mood as he took to
his bed in the inn that night. He had paid his lady-friend well for her
services and she had melted away into the darkness of the streets. But the
whole time, he had imagined Meggie’s body beneath his; Meggie’s eyes meeting
his as they moved together. He had suppressed a smile. She had that funny
little squint when she looked at you; she put her head on one side and creased
her eyes up at the corners. It was rather attractive, in an odd sort of way.
But perhaps at such close quarters, she wouldn’t need to squint. A good wash
and some clean clothes, the girl would be as good as a Lady and quite
presentable. He lay down on the feather mattress with his hands behind his
head, staring at the drapes above him. Yes; Meggie would be very interesting.
He would have to work on fulfilling that ambition when he got back home.
Charles closed his eyes and slept with a smile on his face; confidence is a
wonderful thing and the best narcotic in the