Free Midsummer's Eve by Philippa Carr

we shall remember that. If I hear of any persecution of this boy, it will be worse for those who are guilty of it. Jacco, come out now.”
    Jacco came out, Digory with him.
    There was a gasp through the hall, and I had never heard such silence.
    My father laid a hand on Digory’s shoulder.
    He went on. “This boy, Digory, is now a member of my household. I hope that is clear to you all.” He turned to John Ferry, the head groom. “Ferry,” he said. “You’ve got a spare room over the stables. The boy can use that until we decide what he is going to do here.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Ferry.
    “Take him now. He’ll no doubt need to learn a lot if he is going to work with the horses.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Jacco said: “You can go with Ferry. He’ll do as my father says.”
    Digory still did not speak. How different he was from that truculent boy I had met in the woods.
    John Ferry said: “Come on, me lad.”
    He grasped Digory by the shoulder and they went to the door, Digory still walking as though in a trance.
    My father said: “Oh … Ferry?”
    Ferry paused and turned. “Yes, sir?”
    “Remember what I said.”
    “Yes, sir. I will, sir.”
    At a sign from my father the servants were dismissed.
    “You two come into the drawing room and talk to your mother and me,” he said to us. “There’s a great deal I want to ask.”
    So we went and we sat up late telling them all that had happened on that terrible night.
    I felt happier than I had since it happened. It was wonderful to know that my father was there to take care of everything.
    In the days that followed I thought that was the perfect solution in view of everything that had happened. Digory had a home; he was assured of good meals every day, and he had my father’s protection.
    But, of course, there are no perfect solutions. Digory had lost his grandmother and he had taken a great pride in her and the fact that she was not only the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, but she was also a footling—she had been born feet first and that meant she had special powers. Moreover she claimed to be of a Pellar family—one of those whose ancestor had helped a stranded mermaid back to the sea and for such services had been blessed with special powers. A fearful disillusion had come to Digory and added to his misery, for her powers had proved useless against the mob, and she had been unable to take her revenge on them. His pride was shattered and his freedom lost.
    He loved horses and would rather work with them than with anything else; but he was no longer free. He was at the beck and call of John Ferry, and although there was no persecution—for that had been most forcefully forbidden by my father—at the same time there was no friendliness either.
    He was a wild spirit and if his granny was a Pellar, so was he.
    He was morose and said little to the other stable boys; he did what he had to do grudgingly and his love was for the horses and never spilled over to his fellow human beings. Perhaps for Jacco and me he had a certain feeling. He did not forget that we had probably saved his life on that memorable night. Apart from us he appeared to have no friendly feeling for any others.
    He was different; he was apart.
    Moreover his presence was resented, although none dared show it. But resentment was there all the same. Nobody could really forget that he was the Witch’s Varmint.
    Jacco and I had made him our protégé. We were fond of him because we believed we had saved his life, and every time I saw him I experienced a glow of satisfaction and pride because of this. And I was sure that Jacco felt the same. There is nothing which endears such a person to one so much as the knowledge that one has done that person a great service—and what greater service could there be than to save a life?
    He never sought company. I fancied he lived in a little world of his own where he, the Pellar boy, was all-powerful. He had a deep-rooted pride in himself; he did not need