Free A Witch Alone (The Winter Witch Trilogy #3) by Ruth Warburton Page A

then I failed her, drove her to her death, and she cursed me for it, damn her for a cold-hearted witch. Ahhh …’
    A horrible groan of agony bubbled from his lips and he clutched at his side, then jabbed frantically at a red button on a wire. A nurse came hurrying through the door, holding a tray of tablets and vials.
    ‘Mr Fisher, are you in pain?’
    ‘Aye.’ He was white and sweating. ‘A bad go just now.’
    ‘Would you like some more morphine? It’s past time, if you want it.’
    ‘Aye.’ He nodded gratefully. ‘Morphine. Yes.’
    I watched as the nurse administered the dose, then helped Bran to sip a little water. Then he sank back on the pillows and his lids fluttered closed.
    The nurse gave a sigh.
    ‘He’ll do now for another few hours. It’s very sad when they get to this stage. Are you all right dear?’ She turned to me. ‘It’s very upsetting seeing them in pain, I know, but he’ll be comfortable now for a while.’
    ‘I’m OK,’ I said huskily.
    She nodded, then said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you be.’
    After she went I took Bran’s hand and sat, holding it very gently and listening to his harsh, rattling breaths. His hand was thin and brittle in mine, and I closed my eyes.
    When I opened them he was looking at me, his grey eyes, so like Seth’s, filled with tears. He seemed to beg me to understand something – his lips moved, but no sound came out.
    ‘I can’t hear you Bran,’ I said. His grip tightened and he took a painful breath and tried to speak again, but the words were just sighs and rattling clicks. His face twisted, full of effort, and then his lids drifted closed, but his grip on mine was hard, as if he was trying to communicate his message through touch alone.
    I thought of Em and the way we spoke to each other in our heads, mind to mind.
    I thought of my promise never to interfere with an outwith again, never to cast a spell on an ordinary person.
    And then I thought of Bran’s agonized eyes, begging me to understand something he couldn’t say, begging me to help him before it was too late.
    I took a breath, closed my eyes, and touched my fingers to Bran’s temple. Then I waited.
    It hit me like the buffet of a wave – the smell of the quay, the howl of the wind, and the woman standing in front of Bran, her black hair whipping in the wind, her face white in the darkness, her coat clutched around her huge swollen belly.
    What do you mean, no? Her voice trembled.
    I said no . Bran’s voice – but not his voice. His voice as it must have been twenty years ago, strong, sure, above the crashing waves and shrieking wind.
    But I’ve come all this way – you don’t understand. You’ll be condemning us to death – me and the baby. The prophecy said you would save her – that you’d give your life for her.
    I’ll not give a brass farthing for her, or you, or any of your kind. Understood? You and your talk of prophecies – what do you know? My will is my own.
    Her face twisted. She took a step forwards, towards him.
    I’ve read the prophecy a hundred times – it can’t be wrong. A man of the sea – the Fisher King’s line. It’s you – it must be you. I scryed a hundred different ways and every way – the water, the rods, the bones – they all led me here, to Winter.
    And I will drive you away, back where you came from, witch. He spat at her feet, a gob of filth on the quayside, and she staggered back, her hands over her belly. I’ll die meself before me or my kin helps your kind. Understood?
    She looked at him. Her blue-grey eyes were full of tears and hate, and her voice, when she spoke, was a hiss.
    Then I curse you, Bran Fisher. I – Isla Winterson – I curse you for what you’ve done to me and my child. I curse you to limp through life a broken man, chained to the sea, your life in its grip. That wound you got in the war will fester, you will die a little more each time your foot hits solid land, and every tide that pulls away from the shore will take a