The Return of the Witch by Paula Brackston Page B

designed for the purpose; the next one up was the main living area; above that was a storeroom and extra sleeping space; at the top was the machinery that allowed the roof of the windmill to pivot and turn, so that the sails could capture the wind, and where the sturdy iron workings transferred the energy from the sky down through the core of the structure and into the great grinding stone at its base. When the mill was at rest, the whole building seemed to sigh and shrug its shoulders, grateful to take its ease. The heat of the day lingered in the living space, and the air was dusty. I leaned forward to catch the soft, fresh breeze that stirred the hay meadow. Aloysius scampered onto the sill. We both looked warily about for the resident cats, but they must have taken themselves off to hunt out of doors for a change. The diminutive creature settled to washing his whiskers. I was tired, but my limbs had a curious restlessness about them, and my heart was given to jumping and skipping beats in a most provoking manner. I surmised this was a delayed aftereffect of Time Stepping, and concluded that had I suffered any serious harm during the transition it would surely have manifested itself more plainly by now. I needed time to settle. I needed to settle to time. In truth, I was also wary of lowering my consciousness into sleep. Gideon was close, geographically, chronographically, and magically. I did not yet know his purpose in transporting Tegan as he had done, but his choice of time and place strongly suggested that I remained the primary object of his obsession. Why else would he bring Tegan to my childhood home, the place where he and I had met, where our destinies had become so irrevocably entwined?
    â€œAre you unable to sleep, Mistress Carmichael?” Erasmus’s voice behind me came as a surprise. For a non-witch, he was adept at moving about unnoticed. I decided this was because at times he did so with what was truly an unnatural speed. A consequence of his ability to bend time to his will, no doubt. “It is a common response to Stepping,” he told me, coming to stand at the window. He rested his hand on the upper frame and leaned forward, breathing deeply. “I swear my lungs are half filled with flour, or dust from the grain, or pollen from the meadow.”
    â€œYou are not a natural miller.”
    â€œI am a city boy. I find all this … emptiness,” here he waved his hand at the countryside below, “… pretty enough, but a little lacking.”
    â€œBut you are quite wrong. The fields and forests wriggle with life and activity even at this hour.”
    â€œYes, it is precisely that they can be described as ‘wriggling’ that bothers me. You see soft open spaces, I see only absence. Where are the people? Where are the signs of our great civilization? A library, perhaps? An institute of learning would sit very finely just there. And a tailor who knows what he is about.” He smiled down at his own shabby clothes, patting his rough shirt to send up a little puff of dust. “Put simply, I miss London.”
    â€œIt is your home?”
    â€œI consider it so, though of course my chosen path does not entirely accommodate the notion of ‘home.’ It was where I grew up. Where I studied and ultimately became what I am.” He turned to smile at me now. “I visit when I am able.”
    It occurred to me then that we shared a rootlessness in our long, unconventional lives. I had been compelled to move on in every generation so as not to draw attention to my longevity. I, too, had no real place to call home. Even Willow Cottage, which I now considered so important in my life. In time I would have to leave there, to leave Matravers and seek out another place to live.
    â€œBut this was your childhood home, was it not?” he went on. “Of course, you will feel quite differently about it.”
    â€œReturning here has indeed stirred many