Burn Mark by Laura Powell Read Free Book Online

about?’
    ‘Is that a freckle on her arm, or the Devil’s Kiss?’
    ‘I always thought Nell had something spooky about her . . .’
    ‘’Ware the witch!’
    Laughing, they began to pelt her with screwed-up napkins and beer bottle tops.
    Lucas watched and waited. Anger had intensified the hot throb in his head.
    Perhaps Gideon had been right to challenge his remark about torturers. It wasn’t always fair to judge the past according to modern sensibilities. The witch’s bridle was a defensive weapon as well as an instrument of oppression; a relic of a war that hadn’t yet been won. But the Inquisition had worked hard to become an institution that could be respected and trusted as well as feared. And for all the care of its construction, the bridle was a crude, ugly thing, which belonged to more primitive times. To make such an artefact part of a drunken party game . . . It was like ogling a pirated balefire film. It was like those men sipping gin and tonic as Bernard Tynan burned.
    Meanwhile, Nell sat alone on the sofa, as the merriment and missiles rained down. Her head was bowed awkwardly under the weight of iron. Lucas saw her eyes darting about inside. She made another muffled sound, and her shoulders twitched.
    ‘I think she wants to get it off,’ he said, abruptly cutting into the fun.
    ‘I’m sure she does. But that’s not the way it works, I’m afraid,’ Gideon replied. Taking hold of the chain behind Nell’s back, he pulled her off the sofa. Caught off balance, she fell on to her knees. Gideon pushed a hank of fair hair off his forehead and moistened his lips, staring down at the muzzled girl. He gave the chain another tug. ‘ First she has to learn her lesson.’
    He’s turned on , thought Lucas, with a shock of disgust. ‘And what lesson is that?’
    Gideon smiled blandly. ‘That witchcrime doesn’t pay.’
    Lucas hardened his face. He walked swiftly over to Nell and felt for the catch at the back of the bridle, releasing the cage. After a bit of fiddling, he managed to open the manacles too. Nell gulped and coughed, moisture filming her eyes.
    ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
    The next cough was more like a retch. Nell’s hands fluttered to her throat. There were red marks around her wrists. Then, ‘Sure,’ she said, over-brightly. Her voice was hoarse. ‘I’m fine.’
    Nobody even looked at her. They were all watching Gideon watch Lucas.
    Lucas found the bridle heavier than he’d expected. It felt colder than metal should, the iron bands biting icily into his skin. The heat in his skull flickered and faltered. He felt extraordinarily tired.
    ‘You look a little green, Stearne,’ Gideon observed. ‘Maybe it’s time to lighten up, hmm? Life shouldn’t be all work, no play.’
    Lucas put the bridle into the other boy’s hands. ‘Trouble is, I don’t much like your games.’
    It was only then he realised that Bea was there. She must have come down the stairs behind him. He wondered how much she had seen and what she had thought, but went past her regardless. He needed some air.
     
    Lucas was immediately regretting his intervention. He’d come across as a pompous, humourless bore. And Nell was a silly little bimbo anyway, trying to suck up to Gideon like that. She didn’t need rescuing. What’s wrong with me? he thought, as he sloped moodily through the conservatory and into the garden beyond. But the question was unsettling. Of course there’s nothing wrong, he told himself quickly. It’s just one of those days. I’m getting ill and it’s making me cranky. God – if only my head would just keep quiet . . .
    Several people, mostly Sophie’s friends, were smoking on the patio among a scattering of tea-lights. One of the boys was tunelessly strumming a guitar. Even so, the night air and relative peacefulness were a relief. The garden’s growth was luxuriant, blurry with spring. Lucas walked across the lawn to the pond and frowned down at his reflection.
    Someone said his