Free The Winter Ghosts by Kate Mosse Page A

from reality, that I was incapable of distinguishing true from false. But at that moment, sitting with Fabrissa in the warm companionship of the Ostal, the answer was obvious.
    ‘Yes. When it matters, then, yes. I am.’
    She smiled, a broad and hopeful smile. And I, poor slave, felt a thousand emotions explode inside my head. I was lost. Bewilderingly, heart and soul, lost. Still she stared at me, as if seeking the answer to some question she had yet to ask.
    ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘I can see it.’
    A whistle slipped silently from between my lips. I felt as though I had passed some kind of test. A modern Gawain setting out from the Round Table, the conditions of his quest met. I was aware of her gaze upon me, weighing up the man I was. I could see she was considering and reflecting, I could see the movement in her eyes. But on the outside she was still, so very still. I tried to be the same, though nerves were sloshing in my stomach like bilge water in a scuppered rowing boat.
    The moment stretched between us. The shapes and sounds and smells of the room, all the guests in it, faded away. Then Fabrissa shifted position on the bench and the enchantment was broken.
    ‘Tell me about him,’ she said.
    The ground fell from under me, like a trapdoor beneath the hangman’s noose. A sudden, sharp drop, then the jerk of the rope.
    How did she know? I had said nothing. Hinted at nothing. I did not want to talk about George, not even to Fabrissa. Especially not to Fabrissa. I did not want her to see me as the wretch I believed myself to be, but rather the man I had been for the past hours in her company.
    ‘What do you mean?’ I said, more sharply than I intended.
    She smiled. ‘Tell me about George.’
    Still I pretended not to understand.
    ‘Freddie?’ she said quietly. Her hand slid across the rough white cloth, a little closer to mine. Her fingernails were the colour of pearl.
    I took a sharp intake of breath. ‘I can’t.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘I . . .’
    How to explain? I stumbled for an excuse.
    ‘It’s all been said.’
    ‘Maybe only the wrong things have been said.’
    Her hand was so close to mine now that we were almost touching. I noticed how the gold ring she wore on her right thumb was too big for her. It rested on the knuckle, as though surprised to find itself there.
    ‘Talking doesn’t help.’
    The space between her skin and mine crackled. I dared not move. Dared not let the tips of my fingers stray towards hers.
    ‘Talking did not help,’ I repeated, the words dry in my throat. I glanced at her. She was still smiling, not with pity, but with compassion, curiosity. I felt something crack inside me.
    ‘And could it be you talked only because others required it of you? Maybe? But it is different here. Things are different. Try.’
    ‘I did try,’ I snapped back, appalled at how immediately the sense of being unfairly judged returned. Mother had accused me of not wanting to get well, Father too. I could not bear it if Fabrissa thought the same. ‘No one believed me, but I did try.’
    Whether by design or accident, her hand brushed against mine as she withdrew it from the table and placed it in her lap. So intense, so profound was the sensation, I felt as if I had been burnt.
    ‘I—’
    ‘Try again, Freddie,’ she said.
    And in those three quiet words, three simple words, somehow there was a promise of an entire life to be lived if I could only take the chance.
    I can still recall the sense of possibility that came over me then, a kind of lightness. Every sinew, every muscle, every vein in my body seemed suddenly to vibrate, to be alive. If I could find the courage to speak, she would listen. Fabrissa would listen.
    I took a deep breath and then slowly, steadily, exhaled. Finally, I began to talk.

Stories of Remembrance and Loss

    ‘I remember everything about that day,’ I said. ‘Every tiny detail. The smell and the texture of it, every second before and after the knock at the