Читать книгу The Witch’s Tears - Katharine Corr, Katharine Corr - Страница 6

Jack was sprawled on the grass, gazing up at the blue sky. Merry was lying next to him, leaning on one elbow. She had a paperback open in front of her, but she wasn’t reading. Instead, she was studying Jack’s face: the line of his jaw, the shape of his eyes, the curve of his lips as he thought of something and grinned.

‘What’s funny?’ she asked.

‘Nothing, really. I’m just enjoying the sunshine. Enjoying the fact that you are here, and Gwydion is not.’

‘Gwydion?’ Merry searched her memory. ‘He was a wizard, wasn’t he?’ She glanced back at her book. The paperback had gone, replaced by pages of parchment bound together with a leather cord. That was weird. But she didn’t really want to read, anyway – she wanted to feel Jack’s lips against hers. Tossing the manuscript aside, she shifted so she was lying right next to him.

Jack smiled, pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Eventually Merry drew away and rested her head on his shoulder.

‘I’ve missed that so much.’ She shivered a little; the warmth of the day was fading and there were dark clouds gathering in the north. ‘You know, I think it’s about to rain. Let’s go.’ She sat up and reached for her bag.

But Jack didn’t move.

‘Jack?’ She nudged him. ‘Aren’t you coming?’

He shook his head, not looking at her.

‘You know I can’t come with you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m dead, Merry. You killed me, remember? True love’s kiss?’

He pulled the front of his shirt open and Merry saw a gaping wound across the centre of his chest, dark with dried blood.

‘Oh God …’ She pressed her hand to her mouth.

‘There wasn’t a happy ever after, Merry. Not for us.’

And now she could see that Jack’s lips were pale and waxy, and his eyes were cloudy, unfocused …

Merry gasped and sat up.

It was a dream. Just a dream. Or at least –

She brushed her fingers against her lips. It had felt real. He had felt real.

Grief swelled painfully in her chest. She pulled the duvet back up and curled into a ball on her side, hugging her knees, waiting for the hurt to fade. It was nearly two weeks since she’d last dreamt about Jack, or had a nightmare about Gwydion. More than three months since she and Leo had escaped from the Black Lake. Sometimes – on days when she was busy, or surrounded by people – it seemed like longer. But then a fragment of memory would stab at her, make her catch her breath, and the whole thing could have happened yesterday.

There was a photo of Merry and her brother on her bedside table. In the photo, Leo was smiling. She tried – failed – to recall the last time she’d seen him look that happy. Today was the first morning of the summer holidays. But the brighter the sunshine, the more they both seemed to be lost in the shadow.

She wiped a tear away from her cheek. The day began.