The Illusionists (31 page)

‘What?' said Rue, unnerved.

‘I need you,' said White simply.

Her breath caught.

‘Me too,' she said. ‘You make everything better. You make everything more alive.'

She reached out and took his hand. His fingers curled around hers. But still there was something in him that held back.

‘Aren't you afraid?' he said, at last.

‘Of what?'

‘Of not knowing what will happen between us?'

Rue shrugged.

‘Let's find out,' she said.

The meadow is still today, as if waiting for something to happen.

Old Stumpy juts into the sky, alone. The young of the village are in morning lessons – he won't see action until dusk. The grass stirs in the autumn breeze and the trees whisper to themselves. They like gossip as much as the villagers.

Near the forest line, the air pops gently, and a woman steps out of nothing. The breeze hits her, stirring her short hair, which floats above her ears in a wispy cut that will cause comment amongst the women later on. Her eyes are a piercing blue and she hugs a sling to her chest protectively. The baby inside it niggles and she hushes it, gently jiggling the underside of the sling until it quiets.

At her feet is a travelling bag, stuffed to the seams. She bends down and hoists it onto her shoulder.

She should stand and look at it all. She should suck down the air, the smell, those particular things that spark her memory. But there will be time enough for that later on. For now, she's exhausted, and the baby will need feeding soon.

She sets off walking until she arrives at the square. It's a decent mid-morning crowd and she catches some stares as she stalks past. She did her best before coming but her clothes are just a little off, her hair too weird.

It isn't until she passes the bakery and the smell catches her that she feels herself swell as if she might burst. She's close to crying, and that won't do. It's been so long since she's been here. Years and years to her, even though to the village she isn't even born yet.

She makes her way into The Four Cocks and straight up to the barman. His name is Pendrew, Pendrew John. But she shouldn't know that, so she gives him the smile of a stranger.

‘All right, Dam?' says John, with the easy manner of a Tregenna man and the curious eye of a local. ‘Can I help you?'

‘I'd like a room, please,' she says. ‘For a couple of nights, mebbe, until I can find something more permanent.' The accent comes back to her easily.

‘Wanting to stay, is it? Werl, there ain't much around at the moment, but I should ask at Beads in the morning, the shop along the square a bit. The Dam there, she'll know more 'n me.'

‘Thank you.'

John eyes her baby. ‘Alone, is it?'

‘Yeh.' She watches him file that away for future gossip.

‘How do you call yourself, then?'

She hesitates for just a fraction. This is the moment she could choose differently, if she wanted.

But she doesn't.

She can't.

‘Penhallow,' she says. ‘But no Dams or nothing for me, thanks. You can just call me Fernie.'

‘And what do you do, then?'

‘I'm a hedgewitch.'

John's face changes. Perhaps she sees a little bit of suspicion, a little bit of respect unfurl there.

‘Ah, right,' he says. ‘Welcome to the village, then, Fernie.'

Rue smiles.

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