Ingenious pain, Andrew Miller [little red riding hood ebook .txt] 📗

disturbs him almost more than if he had found her body. Truly, then, perhaps she was a witch, and has taken off, naked into the air. Or have they stripped her, taken her with them to murder at their leisure? He gathers the clothes. There is still some vestige of human warmth in the fabric, and it is then, as he bundles the clothes under his arm, that he has the strongest sense that she is with him, somewhere close by. He whispers, his voice odd and strained, strange to him. He says: 'I am a friend, a friend. I am a friend.'

He takes her scarf, ties it to a low branch, then runs with long, powerful strides through the surf of snow, out of the forest and across the luminious plain to the monastery. The company is sat in a half-circle by the fire. They look round, amazed to see the Reverend with such a look on his face and clutching what appears to be a ball of women's clothes.

For the moment he does not explain, says only that they must come with him, and such is his air of urgency, of certainty, that Monsieur About immediately buttons his coat. Featherstone also stands, but his wife plucks at his elbow. Most strange is Dyer, though in the moment it does not seem so. He goes out with About, ties on snow shoes at the door and follows the Reverend, who is already stretching out ahead of them.

They do not talk until they are close by the forest's edge. The Reverend says: 'There is someone we must help. A woman. The people are hunting her . . .'

About asks: 'You know where she is?'

1 know where we must look for her.'

Dyer says nothing, caught in some confusion of his own, harassed onward perhaps by the same compulsion that has the Reverend in its grasp.

They pass, breathing heavily, under the first trees. Moonlight

lies like bones under the broken cover of the leaves. The Reverend w^onders if he will find the place again, yet even vv^hile wondering, knows that he shall and is not surprised to see the scarf hanging darkly from the tree.

He begins to search, prodding with a stick among the dense architecture of the fir and snow and shadows. The others, after watching him a moment, do likewise. Half an hour they keep at it, circling out then back, coming together again. The Reverend feels himself coohng. Has he led them on a wild goose chase? Why should the woman be here? There is no sense to it at all. Yet he was so sure she would be here, hiding, waiting for his return. He catches the gleam of Dyer's eye and is forming his apology when Dyer says: 'Those were her clothes you had?'

'They were.'

About says: 'She will not live long in this cold.'

Dyer says: 'She did not want the dogs to scent her.'

He is looking over the Reverend's shoulder. Now he brushes past him towards a hump of snow by the roots of a great tree. Something darker is showing from the snow. Dyer crouches beside it. There is a moment of hesitation before he touches it. It is a hand.

They dig, hunched over the mound like grave-robbers, scooping the snow, throwing it behind them. They work along the line of the arm to the just-warm crevice of her armpit. They uncover her shoulder, a breast, her neck. Then working up around her face. Chin, mouth, eyes.

'Does she live? Does she breathe?'

Dyer feels at her neck for a pulse, lowers his face by hers, his cheek by her mouth.

'Does she live, Doctor?'

'Faintly.'

'She does not appear to have any wounds, praise God.'

Dyer says: 'The cunning creature buried herself

The Reverend removes his greatcoat. He says: ^We must hft her out. Get her to the monastery.'

They Hft her. About says: 'How small she is.' They vrrap her in the Reverend's coat. The Reverend rubs her hands, feels them come to life between his own. She opens her eyes; The whites throw back the moonlight. He says: 'Madam, we are here to help you. Do not be afraid. Tell her, monsieur, not to be afraid.'

Dyer says: 'She is not afraid.'

'We must carry her,' says About. 'We must leave this place. Now. You are the youngest, Mr Dyer. The strongest, I think. You carry her first. We take turns. Allezf

Dyer gathers the woman in his arms. Her head leans easily against his shoulder. They walk in a line out of the forest. Now and then, from far off, comes the howl of a dog, even perhaps of a wolf The Reverend shivers, feels the want of his coat; he is suddenly very tired. The moon sails on, low across the surface of the sky. He does not know exactly what has happened, only that it has happened. He does not understand how things have changed, only that they have. He is glad James Dyer needs no help to bring her in.

The woman - for she has no other name until the Reverend dubs her Mary, after his patroness, Mary Hallam - is dressed in her own clothes, together with a cloak of russet wool belonging to Mrs Featherstone. From beneath the hood she watches the coachman lifting bags and boxes into the basket at the rear of Mami Sylvie. The horses are restless after their confinement, toss their heads, stamp the

snow. The coachman carries out a last inspection of the runners, makes a face, shakes his head. Reverend Lestrade, coming out of the door of the monastery, asks the ladies how they do; how shall they like skating to St Petersburg? Mrs Featherstone declares she will be happy to leave in any way at all, would go on the back of an ass so long as it would take her to some more civilised part of the world.

The Reverend rubs his hands, briefly wonders who is now wearing his gloves, then helps the ladies into the coach. Featherstone comes out