Free The Return of the Witch by Paula Brackston

bow, then stuck out his hand. “Erasmus Balmoral. Exceptionally pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said. “Though, of course, we have already met, albeit without introduction. I apologize for the somewhat intimate nature of our interactions so far. I often feel it is a poor way to encounter someone for the first time, something of a leap over the usual order of things, but there we are. Time Stepping is an inexact science. More an art, in truth. And as such, I suppose, we must forgive it the occasional impropriety.”
    I stared at him. “ You are the Time Stepper?”
    â€œFor my sins. I trust you have not suffered any ill effects? Some find a ringing in the ears persists, or a giddiness. Headaches, perhaps?”
    â€œI am quite well, thank you. But, I confess, I wasn’t expecting…” I hesitated. This was not how I had pictured a Time Stepper. They were bookish people, exceedingly clever, committed to their calling, having spent years studying their singular craft. This man was roughly hewn, shabby-looking, dishevelled, and engaged in manual labor.
    â€œâ€¦ a miller? No, I don’t suppose you were.” He grinned, waving his arm at the windmill behind him. “It is rather splendid, though, don’t you agree? True, the living quarters are a little basic, but I believe I have made them acceptably comfortable. Why don’t we go in, and I’ll prepare a light luncheon? You must be hungry, after all, you haven’t eaten in centuries!” He laughed loudly at his own joke and offered me his arm. I took it and allowed him to lead me briskly back into the mill house. It seemed he did everything at some speed. He released my arm to bound up the stairs ahead of me to the chamber in which I had awoken. He hastened to throw open all the shutters, clearly a man given to energetic movements, and I saw that there was a simple stove on the far side of the room, with a water bowl, jug, and shelves and cooking utensils about the place. I sat at the small table and watched as he took bread and cheese from a slatted cupboard and placed them before me, snatching up a jar of pickles and a pat of butter, too.
    â€œPlease, help yourself,” he said, taking a stone jar of ale from the highest shelf and using his sleeve to wipe dust off two earthenware beakers. “The cheese is unremarkable, but the bread is delicious, if I say so myself. I baked it yesterday. One of the advantages of my newfound trade; a miller is never short of flour. “’Tis only cheat bread, but fortunately I am a more accomplished baker than I am a miller. Come along, tuck in, I’ll have no guest of mine die starving of manners.”
    He sat opposite me and began carving generous chunks from the loaf with the same bone-handled knife I had seen him use on the sacks earlier. Even slicing bread was a task he tackled with alarming speed, the blade glinting in the summer sunshine, yet more flour rising up from the crust of the loaf.
    â€œI am a little confused,” I told him.
    â€œNo doubt. Everyone always is. Lots of questions, naturally. Ask away!”
    â€œI had anticipated some manner of communication between us before … before we were to travel.”
    â€œI heard your call, loud and clear. Very good it was, very…” he paused, motionless for the briefest of moments, eyes raised to the high ceiling as he searched for the appropriate word. “… forceful,” he said at last, before resuming piling food onto his wooden platter.
    â€œBut, how did you know where … when I wanted to go to? I had given you but the scantest details.”
    â€œEnglish Civil War,” he spoke as he chewed. “Batchcombe Hall.” He used his knife to point over his left shoulder, evidently indicating the location of the great house. “Plenty to be going on with.”
    â€œAs I recall, this country was engaged in sporadic war for over fifteen years. I