The Return of the Witch by Paula Brackston Page A

The year was 1628.”
    â€œNineteen years before this date. In the natural order of things you would be … let me see … thirty-five years old.” He looked at me anew, calculating, wondering, and then nodded and shrugged. “Yes, it’s plausible.”
    â€œYou are too gallant.”
    â€œForgive me, I was not attempting to flatter. My point is that, should you be recognized, less suspicion will be aroused if you look how you might be expected to look. If you were either ridiculously young in appearance or markedly old, well, that in itself would suggest something amiss. In any case, it is best if you keep yourself to yourself.”
    â€œAnd how am I to do that when I need to search for Tegan? I must talk to people who might have seen her, I must ask questions.”
    â€œYou will be of no use to your friend in a cell. Or … worse. Be cautious, madam. That is all I ask.”

 
    6
    I waited impatiently until dusk and then made my way to the woods at the far edge of the meadow. I needed to spell cast in order to try and detect Tegan, and for this I needed darkness, and a place of shelter and calm. Such ancient woodlands as those of Batchcombe teemed with an ethereal energy and would amplify any enchantment of my own. As I stepped into the cool embrace of the leafy oaks and beech trees I experienced so many conflicting emotions and sensations. The magic of the forest caused my skin to tingle. Memories flooded back to me, bright and strong. Seeing Gideon here engaged in an act of violence against a lone Gypsy girl. Gideon’s hut, deep in the heart of the forest, where he had taught me my first magic. Where I had fallen under his dark spell. And running. Running from him, from the baying mob, from the fate I refused to succumb to. I had to guard against the siren call of feelings past. It was my new position in time, the point where I now found myself, this was where I needed to hold my attention. This was what mattered now. But the events of my youth played themselves out over and over in my mind, flashes of thought, of deed, of love and loss and pain. With my witch’s eye I glimpsed little Margaret, my dear lost sister, running among the trees. I could make out the imposing figure of Gideon himself in the shadows, watching and being watched. The scents of the forest—fungi, loam, lichen, wild garlic, fading bluebells, mosses and ferns—all combined into a heady aroma of times past and come again. My mind struggled to find order in it all. I felt Gideon moving closer but could not tell if it was the memory of him or his presence in that very moment. All at once I felt trapped by the trees, penned in by their towering trunks, held back by the tangle of low branches and thickets of brambles and vine. If Gideon came to me here, now, I was not prepared, was not equipped to face him. I wanted to run, to dash back out into the open space of the meadow, but I so dearly wanted to call out to Tegan, too. If Gideon was close, truly close, then might not she be also? It was too dangerous, too much was at stake. If I played my hand badly, Gideon would, at the very least, be forewarned of my presence. At worst, well, to face him insufficiently defended would be foolish indeed. I turned and strode through the woods, tramping the forest floor with determined feet, endeavoring to give myself the courage I needed not to run like a frightened child. My moment with Gideon would come, but this was not it. Not here, not yet.
    *   *   *
    That night I was too restive to attempt sleep. Instead I sat on the end of my bed in the living quarters, letting the sounds of the night drift in through the open window. Erasmus had made up a bed for himself on the floor above. I discovered that the windmill had five floors: The one on ground level housed the colossal millstone; the one above that was where grain was stored, the bags being winched through a doorway at the rear