Witch Hunt

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Phoebe Fairbrother groaned as the light filtered through the tattered red brocade curtains. She had a head on fit to burst, and beside her George Wainwright was snoring like a pig, though that wasn’t what had woken her up. Something else had – a noise from the street. But it was George stopping her from falling back to sleep.

‘Get out!’ She hit him with one of the stained satin pillows from her bed.

‘Wha . . . ?’ He sat up, his hair comically rumpled on one side.

‘I said get out! Nobody paid me for no board and lodging.’

‘But, Phoebe darlin’—’

‘You deaf? Get out!’

She pulled the pillow over her head as he clumped around the room, pulling on his britches and boots, and then stomped crossly down the stairs to the street door. At last it was quiet and she rolled on to her back, trying to recapture the warm languorous dream she’d been having before she’d been woken – but just as she was slipping into unconsciousness it came again. A crack against the windowpane. This time there was a cry, a voice low and hoarse.

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