At the Dying of the Year by Chris Nickson Page A

and damp against his face. No doubt folk would be out tonight, eager to name names and hope for the money. It was stupid.
    She came through the door and he stood upright, smiling, his heart lighter. Emily put her arm through his and they began to walk down the street. Rob pointed out the poster and she stopped to read it.
    â€˜A reward?’ she asked.
    â€˜Yes,’ he answered with a sigh. ‘A big one, too. It shows how concerned they are.’
    â€˜But everyone . . .’ She paused for a moment. ‘It’s not going to help what you do at all, is it?’
    â€˜No,’ he told her, ‘it’s not.’
    She took tighter hold of his arm and said, ‘Let’s take a walk by the river.’
    â€˜Now?’ Rob asked in astonishment. ‘In this weather?’
    â€˜Then there won’t be many people around,’ she answered with a smile, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to refuse her.
    Emily led and he was content to follow. She strode past the warehouses and the stink of the dye works as if they barely existed, pulling him along by the hand, before clambering up the bank into a stand of trees, all the leaves gone from their branches. The track ran to a dip in the ground, sheltered from the wind and out of sight. She turned around, gazing up at the sky, a smile on her lips that he couldn’t read.
    â€˜You look like you know this place.’
    â€˜When I was little my sister and I used to come here.’ She paced around slowly, reaching out to touch a tree or bending to make out something he couldn’t see. ‘It was our special place. Even Mama and Papa didn’t know about it. I haven’t been back here since Rose died.’ She gathered her cloak and sat on an old, weathered tree trunk that lay on the ground. ‘We’d sit here and she’d tell me stories. Or sometimes we’d play.’ She patted the log and he settled next to her.
    â€˜So why did you want to bring me here?’ He stroked her neck, the skin soft and warm under his fingertip. She turned and kissed him quickly.
    â€˜Because I wanted you to know about it, too,’ she explained. ‘I wanted us to have somewhere that was ours, where no one else can find us. And in summer . . .’ Her eyes twinkled; he imagined the hollow hidden by bushes and leaves and grinned. Emily took his hand and began to slide her fingers between his. ‘Papa told me some things while he was recovering,’ she began, her glance flickering to him, then away and back again, and he knew they’d reached the true reason for coming here. He waited; she’d continue when she was ready. ‘Do you remember Amos Worthy?’
    â€˜Of course,’ he replied, taken aback by her question.
    â€˜He knew my grandmama. He loved her. That’s what Papa told me. I think it surprised him when he learned that.’ Lister was certain that it had. ‘He left me some money in his will.’
    â€˜What?’ The word flew out of him.
    â€˜He told Papa that he wanted to give me freedom. I’ll receive it when I come of age.’
    When she came of age, he thought. That was still four years away, a lifetime, one he wanted to spend with her. But he knew Emily; if she was talking about it, she needed to make a decision about this now, otherwise it would rub at her every day and leave her raw.
    â€˜It would be my money.’ Her eyes widened. ‘
My
money. Enough to live on.’ She paused. ‘For us both to live on.’
    â€˜You know what he was, don’t you?’
    She nodded, her lips pushed together.
    â€˜What do you want to do?’
    â€˜What would you do?’ she countered.
    It was a long time before he answered, allowing his thoughts to form and the words to take shape. He held her hand as she watched him.
    â€˜I think I’d say no. But I’d wish I’d been able to say yes.’
    She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder.