‘He must have done. When I look back, he ain’t even all that good-looking.’ She shrugged. ‘I think by turning him down I’ve broken some sort of spell.’
‘You only needed your own strength. Magic couldn’t beat that.’
She smiled. ‘Yeah. Reckon you’re right.’
She wandered over to the drinks cabinet and poured herself another brandy.
‘You’d best get away from here, vicar,’ she said, her back to him.
He watched her silently, afraid to ask the question.
He downed the rest of the drink and gathered his courage.
‘Are you coming with me?’
‘Oh Adam.’ She came to sit beside him. ‘I’m sorry. I never loved you. I can’t marry you or any of that stuff.’
He looked away.
‘Oh, I see.’
She put her hand on his.
‘But I do care about you. I care a lot. I must do, mustn’t I? Or things would’ve been very different out there.’
‘I love you, Evie.’
‘Mate, you don’t love me. You’re obsessed with me. That ain’t the same thing. You’ll get that, one day.’
‘Everything’s lost,’ he said blankly. ‘Everything’s changed. I’ve lost you and as for my faith … I just don’t know any more. All this magic and witchcraft …’
‘You just need a bit of time to work it all out. Go back to that freaky monastery place in the forest. Sort your head out. You’ll be fine.’
She stood up, yawning.
‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed. I’m cream crackered. Sweet dreams.’
She bent to kiss his forehead, then skipped out of the room, as lightly as if she’d done nothing more arduous with her day than eat strawberries under the shade of a blossoming tree.
Adam put his head between his knees and let the blood rush forward.
He was alive. He could have been dead, but he was alive.
Was it the will of God? Or was it the will of Evie?
He no longer knew which of the two was more powerful.
But he was leaving Saxonhurst. Leaving tomorrow. Nothing and nobody could make him stay.
He looked up, sensing another presence, though the room was empty. Over by the French doors, something moved beyond them, a flicker of pale light, some colour. He heard a tapping and his throat closed up, fearing pitchfork-wielding villagers or Calderwood in a towering rage.
Shakily he rose to his feet and went to the window. The lawns were just as always, stretching onward to the swimming pool and tennis court. But the harvest moon illuminated the trees further on. Somebody leant against a trunk, wearing a burgundy skirt.
‘Julia,’ he murmured. His hand went instinctively to the back of his head, where she had hit him so hard earlier on. ‘I want a word with you.’
He opened the French doors and strode out, breathing in huge lungfuls of good, sweet, clean air. But then the tang of wood smoke interfered with it, bringing a bitterness that made him want to retch. All the same, he continued towards her, face set in a frown.
‘You knocked me out,’ he accused, once she was within hearing range.