Storming into the bedchamber, he made a grab for the flute. *Gimme that!'

Eppie and Martha were astonished to see him appear so unexpectedly.

Eppie jumped up and concealed the flute behind her back.

Lottie saw not her brother but a grotesque fiend, its eyes starting from a face filthy with coal dust and grime. Shrieking, she toppled off the bed.

*Wakelin, stop this!' Martha cried, going to help Lottie. *Is that blood down your jerkin? Are you hurt?'

*I said gimme it!'

*Won't!' Throughout Gabriel's over-long absence the flute had become like a friend, so imbued was it with his and her love.

*He give ya it, din't *e?'

Fatigued, it took all her energy to fight back tears.

*I told you to have nowt to do with the du Quesnes.'

*Gabriel's not the same as the others.'

He held out his hand, ugly with its severed thumb.

Haughtily refusing to cede to his demand, she gripped her chilled hands around the instrument. *It's mine!' Ducking, she breezed past him, but halted in shock, seeing the dog before the fire, snow flecks in his fur. She could tell by the odd way that he lay upon the hearthrug, his eyes open and mouth agape, that Twiss was dead. She did not want to even consider it. *What's the matter with Twiss?'

*He's dead. You killed him.'

*I'd never hurt him!'

*You left the picket gate open. Ma's forever telling ya ta shut it.'

*Don't be silly,' Martha said hastening towards Twiss. *The gate opens of its own accord. You know your father never got around to fixing it. Besides, Eppie would've come the side way to get to the cart shed. But what's happened to Twiss?'

Wakelin ignored his mother's question. He was determined to make Eppie suffer. Pinning her arm to her side, he made to grab the flute with his other hand.

*Let me go!' she shrieked, struggling. *Let me go to Twiss! Please, Wakelin! Please!'

He snatched the flute. With a flick of his wrist, he cast it into the fire.

*No!' Tears blinding her eyes, she rocketed forwards. Stretching for the fire-tongs, she tripped over Twiss's prostrate body.

Roaring to greet her, ferocious flames surged up her dangling cotton hair ribbons. Blinding darkness ripped to hellish red. Crackling, hideous in her ear, stabbing.

Screaming, she frenziedly hurled herself between the settle and the table, the loft ladder and the dresser, fighting for breath, her eyes wild with fright. The taste of roast meat stuck in her throat.

Ignoring the shower of fire drops that scorched her own face, Martha reached for an earthenware jug of vinegar and threw it over Eppie's blazing hair. Dragging her to her knees, she dunked a cloth into a pail of water.

Her hands shaking uncontrollably, she frantically dabbed Eppie's blistered skin. *You've done this to her!' she yelled, turning on Wakelin.

*It was an accident!' he bellowed above Eppie's wailing.

*You wanted to hurt her, you always have.'

In anguish, he tore at his filthy hair. *No, Ma, ya don't understand!'

*Don't you dare have the impudence to tell me what I understand and what I do not! If only her brother was at home, he'd fetch Doctor Burndread to her.'

Roaring from the pit of his stomach, unable to contain his despair, Wakelin fled through the acrid smoke. Gripping hold of the sill, he rammed his head through the window. Splinters of glass sliced into his skin. He felt not his pain, only Eppie's.

Samuel and Betsy, Claire and Henry, had dashed over, having heard the screaming and yelling.

Eppie knew nothing of their visits.

It was late when she came to.

All was quiet.

Downy, velvety snow blanketed the sleeping woods. By dawn, the hedges and bushes would have vanished beneath a crescendo of flakes, the world muffled.

A breeze blew through the smashed windowpane, sending in a flurry of snowflakes as soft as voile. They heaped at the base of the yule candle which Martha had placed there shortly after Eppie's return from the market.

A shovel stood by the door. Wakelin must have gone to bury Twiss.

Dank, appalling, a stench, as of burning feathers, filled the parlour.

Upon the table stood a gallipot of rose-honey, a heap of rags, and a salve that Martha had prepared from egg whites whisked into clarified hog fat to soothe Eppie's burns.

So tortured did she feel by her excruciating burns that the muscles of her face were drawn into a tight grimace. She was conscious of her body throbbing in sympathy.

Martha had placed Eppie's truckle bed at the fireside, to keep her warm.

Twiss's blood speckled the pitching stones beside the bed. Eppie reached out with her trembling fingers and touched the spots. The stones felt icy, the blood dry.

Blubbering uncontrollably, she whimpered, *Twiss!'

Martha came to kneel beside her and cooled her sad, pitiful face.

*Mam! Twiss!'

*I know. Try not to get too upset. You're very poorly.'

*But I loved him!'

*I know. We all did.'

The fire crackled steadily. Lying with the unburned side of her face pressed against the pillow, eking out its meagre comfort, she contemplated how, in an instant, the fire had turned from a welcoming, peaceful friend, cooking their food and keeping them warm, to a loathsome monster, lacerating with flaming slashes. Never had she imagined its powers could be so terrible.

*Are you able to eat anything?' Martha asked.

Eppie mournfully closed her eyes. She felt wretched and could not imagine ever being cheerful again. *How far could sadness drag you down?' she wondered. She realised how much, in the past, she had taken her happiness for granted. Little things, like listening to a song thrush chirping on a wet April evening: *swit-swit-swit, chewy-chewy, chuck-it-out.' The banter and jolly times spent with Gillow and Dawkin. The rare moments when all the family had contentedly gathered around the table for a meal, laughing over some silly tale or memory. Simple things. Simple, but now she realised how precious those moments had been to her. Some things, some people, had gone for ever. Maybe she could regain some contentment in life, one day, though, at the moment, she doubted it.

Having cleared away the uneaten meal, Martha crept off to settle Lottie, who slept with her in the wainscot bed.

Dimly, Eppie was aware of Martha's comforting voice and the child chattering.

Wakelin's empty ale mug clinked as he placed it on the stone floor beside Gillow's armchair.

Turning her maimed head away, she prayed he would not approach.

Hardly caring whether she was asleep or awake, he sank onto the milking stool beside her bed and stared at her pale face, shiny with perspiration. *I'm sorry, Eppie. I shouldn't have done it.'

She had determined to remain calm, not to show weakness throughout this ghastly ordeal. Now her body stiffened in sorrow at his words. Her tears soaked into the pillow and felt damp against her cheek.

His voice was taut. *Yuv gorra understand. It's like I'm never free of *em. It's like they're always trying to get a hold on ya.'

Martha came to stand in the darkened doorway, silent, listening.

Eppie shifted her bandaged head to look at him.

*I can't let *em, see. Ma loves ya. I know you don't always think it, but I love ya an' all. It'd be like having our hearts ripped out if you was to go back to *em.'

Frowning in an effort to concentrate, she sought to make sense of his words. Finding it impossible, she gave up. Too much thinking only amplified the relentless crashing in her head.

Her eyes drifted over his face. His skin was covered in cuts and bruises. One gash, on his forehead, had been so bad that Martha had plucked a hair from Dusty's tail to stitch the cut; Eppie recognised the wiry texture.

At the mention of Twiss's name, she was alert.

*I know it weren't your fault. Not really. Ya must hate me.'

Wakelin seemed an unpredictable intermingling of emotions, sometimes brimming with affection towards her, at other times treating her with alarming animosity. Never, though, would she harbour any desire to hurt his feelings. Despite her suffering, the tremble of a smile danced upon her lips, and she reached out to touch his hand.

Struck by her tender nature, a hard lump leapt visibly to his throat. Not trusting himself to speak, afraid of weeping, he nodded understandingly. Rising swiftly, he stumbled away, clattering to the loft in his cumbersome ploughman's boots.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE.

SIBILANT WHISPERS.

From the lane before Dank Cottage came the leaden footsteps of reapers heading towards the cornfields. Villagers urged their reluctant, squalling children onwards.

Seeing Sukey slap Sissy, her younger sister, for dawdling, Eppie stiffened in foreboding.

*Before rain comes, I'll fix a fresh wax sheet over that smashed pane,' Martha said. *Tipsy treats it like her own door and delights in bringing me half-chewed presents. Last night I was dozing off in bed when I felt something fluffy between my toes. No head the dreadful mouse had.'

Seated on the bench beside the porch, Wakelin was busy sharpening thatching spars with his jack-knife.

Claire breezed down the path, a look of resignation upon her face. *Martha! Henry and I are ready to go now.'

For the last few years Henry had struggled on working for du Quesne as a labourer. However, the acrimonious relationship between him and Maygott was choking him and he had decided to sling in his spade. Having sold their furniture and stock to give them a little extra cash, he and Claire were leaving England to work in North America.

Martha shooed Lottie out of the garden like one of Samuel's sheep. *Eppie, hurry, come and say your goodbyes an' all.'

Come rain or shine, Eppie would never dream of being seen outside the cottage without wearing her bonnet to conceal her burnt ear. Hastily, she tied the ribbons beneath her chin and followed the others.

Chiff-chaffs hopped around gooseberry bushes. Cobalt-crested tomtits dangled upside down on seed heads. Though Eppie's heart soared with pleasure at beholding them, she never once smiled.

Sweeping Lottie off the ground, Claire lavished kisses upon her. *How's about I stuff you down one of your Uncle Henry's boots and stow you away on the ship?'

*Are you sure you're doing the right thing?' Samuel asked, knowing full well that his son-in-law's mind was made up.

Henry tossed the last of the bags into Samuel's cart. *There's nothing here for us. Not anymore.'

*And remember, Martha, you must get Wakelin or Eppie to write and say when you're ready to follow us,' Claire said.

*I can't simply up sticks,' Martha answered. *Things are different for you. Henry's had a taste of the good life. It's only right he should want it again. I've never journeyed further than Litcombe. Rough and rustic my life might be, but this is my home.'

*I'm sure you'll change your mind,' Henry said. *Though you're right, rolling green pastures are a finer sight than cows in a dust storm.'

Claire stepped towards Wakelin, her arms wide. *I'll not be setting eyes on you for a while. Come and give your aunty a big slobber of a kiss.' Pulling a face of stiff repugnance, he quickly carried out the deed. *Henry will find work for you in America. There are more opportunities over there for a young man to better himself, especially in beef.'

She kissed Eppie. *You've had a miserable time and I know you're not quite over it. Things will get better. Look after your mother. She thinks she's nothing short of a workhorse and will wear herself into the ground if not restrained.'

Mournfully, they watched the cart trundle over the packhorse bridge, until it was eventually lost from sight.

Eppie's eyes were drawn to a wrinkled face staring from behind a grimy pane in the cottage across the lane. Raising her palm level with her expressionless eyes, Betsy curled her fingers as her despondent way of saying goodbye. It was almost too much for Eppie to bear. Of recent there had been too many sorrows, too many partings.

Martha lifted Lottie astride Dusty. *We'd better hasten.'

Scooping Eppie off the ground, Wakelin settled her upon Jenny. Though he urged the horse to a fast trot, she seemed incapable of a quicker pace. Despite there being plenty of luscious grass on the lane-side for the horse to graze, she ate little these days. Beneath her fingers, Eppie felt the hardness of the horse's projecting ribs.

In the field opposite the church the last of the corn grew golden, thick and deep. Already reapers, sickles tucked into girths, were being organised into groups by gang leaders. Several fields of corn had been cut, dried in the searing heat and taken to the stack-yard, where Wakelin and Haggard spent much of their time thatching stacks. Martha strolled off to chat to Sally, who cradled her baby in her arms. Wakelin went to release their animals in the adjacent stubble field, to graze alongside beasts belonging to other reapers.

Each morning, throughout the harvest, loaves were baked at the manor for the reapers. It was the children's task to fetch the family loaf, distributed by the parson. Children at the end of the queue turned to stare at Eppie as she approached. Aware of their sibilant whispers, all the incidents of yesterday's bullying filled her mind. She became conscious of her aching thigh, where Wilbert had kicked her. Though she tried to summon courage for the interminably long day ahead, it was easier to turn away.

Conscious of Sukey, her chief tormentor, creeping up, her heart missed a beat. The reason for Sukey's animosity had its roots in the activities at the vestry school where Eppie, through no intention of her own, showed herself to be more knowledgeable than the others. Many of the youngsters harboured a latent jealousy of her status as the parson's favourite, and after her accident the general consensus amongst Sukey's gang was that her injuries served her right.

Sukey clapped her palm against her own ear, feigning Eppie's pain in the blaze. *Oh, oh, it hurts!'

Creeping up, Wakelin clouted Sukey so hard around the ear that her mock wail became a genuine cry of pain.

Emerging from the vestry, Parson Lowford chanced to witness this assault.

*Sedge-fly,' Wakelin said, shrugging. *Gorra nasty bite if ya dain't swat *em quick.'