Free The Witch’s Daughter by Paula Brackston Page B

there were none. She could hear Margaret calling after her, but she searched on, splashing through the shallow foam, scanning the beach and the rocks that led up to the cliff. Nothing. She tried to convince herself he must have been walking in the wet sand. His footprints would have filled in quickly, all trace of his walking instantly erased. That seemed logical. Still it did not explain how he had crossed the expanse of dry sand between the water’s edge and the path to the cliff top. Nor how he had covered the space with such speed that she did not see him go. That she could not see him now toiling up the winding track.
    ‘Bess?’ Margaret was becoming anxious.
    With a furiously beating heart, Bess hurried back to her sister.
    3
    The year turned the corner away from summer and began the fertile rot of autumn, and the family put their efforts to the apple harvest. The trees were not young but were reliable and healthy and had produced another fine yield. The ground was beginning to soften with the increasing rain, but the branches still held their leaves, though they were more copper than green now. Bess and the others worked carefully through the orchard. John had parked the wagon in the gateway, and each basket of apples was tipped gently on to it, ready to be transported to the barn. From there, Anne and Bess would spend many days putting the apples through the press to produce strong, sweet cider that would slake thirsts and lift spirits throughout the following twelve months. Thomas and John climbed wooden ladders with round rungs to reach the higher parts of the fruit trees. Bess and Anne took the apples from them as they were passed down, while Margaret was given the task of collecting windfalls. The harvest would be painstakingly picked over and spread out in a dry, airy part of the barn. It was slow work, but the time invested would pay dividends.
    ‘Have you fallen asleep up there, Thomas?’ Bess was becoming impatient standing at the foot of the ladder, apron stretched out, waiting for the fruit.
    From the next tree her father laughed, his head deep among the foliage. ‘Ah Bess, mibben Tom be struggling to choose. This is important work we are about. I favor my zider free from maggots.’
    Bess began to tap her toe in exasperation. ‘Mibben he’s waiting for them to move on,’ she muttered.
    The branches above her head parted. Thomas frowned down.
    ‘Cease chiding, Bess. I be going fast as I’m able.’
    Bess sighed. ‘Better let me up there if the task be too vexing for thee.’
    Anne walked past with another laden basket. ‘Bess, leave him be. He shan’t work faster for you nagging him.’
    Bess opened her mouth to protest at what she was being asked to put up with, when without warning Thomas came hurtling past her. He crashed wordlessly to the ground. For a second Bess was too stunned to move, then the sound of Margaret’s screams brought her to her senses.
    ‘Thomas?’ Bess stooped over her brother. She repeated his name, but he lay motionless. Anne pushed her way to him.
    ‘Thomas! Here, let me to him. Margaret, step out of the way, child. Thomas?’ She knelt beside him. At last, the boy groaned and opened his eyes. The family let out a collective breath of relief.
    ‘How do I come to be down here?’ he asked, attempting to get to his feet.
    ‘Hush! Lie still,’ Anne told him, stroking his forehead. She flinched, drawing her hand away as if his skin had burned her. She looked up at John. ‘He has a fever.’
    ‘That caused him to fall?’
    Anne nodded. ‘Help me get him to the house and put him to bed.’
    They raised him gently to his feet, an arm around the shoulders of each parent, and half carried him to the cottage. Bess made to follow, but Anne called back, ‘Help Margaret with the windfalls. Come in when you’re finished.’
    Bess bridled at being so excluded. She wanted to help tend to Thomas, not to be left out in the orchard. But she knew work had to go on. And, more