“Your parents will be hearing of this,” he said.
Lucy rose on her knees, pleading with him, as tears began to stream down her face. “Please, Ranger Will, don’t tell my mam. She’ll beat me something terrible if she knows.”
If her plea was meant to engender any pity in Will’s heart, it failed dismally. He glared briefly at her, then nodded. “Good,” he said. Then he looked down at Maddie once more, sitting, swaying slightly from side to side.
“On your feet, Maddie,” he said. “We’re going home.”
She rose awkwardly. If she had found it difficult to sit up straight, standing was even more so. She swayed, trying desperately to get her balance. But something was stopping her. Something was making the world spin around her. She realised she was kneeling on her cloak, pulled it free and staggered upright. Will jerked a thumb towards the entrance to the saddling yard.
“On your way,” he said. Then he glanced back at the others. “You three get home as well. Right now!”
They obeyed, Lucy still sniffling piteously as she went. Once they had merged into the shadows, Will moved to where Tug was waiting for him. He swung up into the saddle with a creak of leather and pointed up the high street.
“Get going,” he ordered curtly.
Maddie felt tears rising to her eyes, but angrily shook them away. The world reeled as she shook her head and she staggered slightly. Then she began to make her way up the middle of the street. Several people were leaving Jenny’s restaurant and they stared at the unusual sight of a girl in a Ranger cloak weaving awkwardly up the high street, followed by the grim figure of a mounted Ranger, occasionally urging her to get a move on. Maddie’s face flushed with embarrassment. She had begun to enjoy a certain prestige in the village. Now she could feel the world watching her, judging her and finding her wanting. She was really nothing more than a silly little girl.
They passed through the village and entered the narrow path through the trees that led to the cabin. She stumbled once, then again, on the uneven ground. Then she fell, a sharp stone cutting into her knee and tearing her tights. She cried out with the pain, feeling hot blood flowing down her leg. She tried to rise and failed. Her head spun.
Then her stomach heaved and she was violently, helplessly sick. She knelt on hands and knees, retching until her stomach was empty and there was nothing more to throw up.
Will, on Tug’s back, towered above her, watching her dispassionately as she alternately retched and sobbed.
“Best thing for you,” he said finally. “Now get on your feet again.”
Hating him, hating herself even more, she managed to regain her feet and lurched down the dark path towards the cabin. Sable moved to greet her, tail wagging heavily, as she climbed the two steps to the verandah, holding on to the verandah post for balance.
Will clicked his fingers and uttered a command, and the dog slowly backed away, resuming her place on the verandah boards. Maddie felt a deep sob forming in her throat. Even Sable, ever-understanding, never-criticising Sable, was ashamed of her.
“Get to bed,” Will told her, as he turned Tug towards the stable at the rear of the hut. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
Twenty-four
Maddie woke with a raging thirst. Her mouth was dry and there was a vile taste in it—a combination of the regurgitated food from the night before and the sour aftertaste of the wine she had drunk. She groaned and sat up in bed, and promptly wished she hadn’t.
The movement made her aware of a throbbing headache that pounded like a hammer against the inside of her skull. It seemed to be strongest behind her left eye, but the pain spread throughout the rest of her head as well, like a dark stain on a carpet.
She sank her head into her hands and moaned softly. Her eyes were dry and raspy, as if someone had thrown a handful of sand into them. Her stomach was empty and she had a queasy feeling—for a moment she thought she was going to throw up again. She fought the urge down and looked cautiously at her bedside table, where she normally kept a beaker of cold water. The beaker was empty, lying on its side on the floor. Vaguely, she recalled waking in the night and draining it, then falling back onto her pillow.
She needed water, cold water, desperately. She thought of the rainwater barrel that was set outside the cabin, by one of the downpipes from the roof. At this time of day, the water would be cold and fresh and delicious. And she would be able to plunge her head right into it, letting its cold, icy touch soothe her throbbing skull.
But first, she’d have to reach it.
She stood, carefully. Her head throbbed with the movement, then settled down to a steady, pounding ache. Her stomach heaved and she fought against the urge to throw up. Then, swaying uncertainly, she took a few steps to the door of her room. She leaned against the door jamb for several seconds, re-gathering her sense of balance, then opened the door and went into the small living room, walking gingerly, trying to minimise the impact of her feet on the ground. Every step reverberated through her frame and into her head.
Will was at the kitchen bench, with his back to her. He turned as he heard the door and frowned at her. She became aware that she was still wearing the same clothes she’d worn the night before, minus her cloak. Her tights were torn at the knee and matted with dried blood. There was a vomit stain on her left sleeve. What she couldn’t see was that her hair was wildly disordered, standing up in all directions like a misbegotten bird’s nest.
“Breakfast is nearly ready,” Will said. His voice was neither condemning or welcoming. His tone was completely neutral. She shook her head, then stopped quickly as the pain surged.
“Don’t think I could eat,” she said, her voice hoarse.
He raised an eyebrow at her. “I think you’d better. You’ll need to get something in that stomach.”
The thought of her stomach made her gag. She swayed uncertainly.
“Need a drink,” she said. “Water.”
He nodded slowly. “I’m sure you do.” He jerked his head towards the door and she turned and made her painful way to it. For some reason, it seemed more difficult than usual to tug it open. The squeak of its bottom edge against the floorboards made her wince, but she got it open and made her way along the porch, one hand against the cabin wall for balance.
The water butt was almost full. It had rained the previous afternoon and the water would be fresh and clean.
And cold. There was a slight frost on the ground. The temperature had obviously dropped close to zero during the early hours of the morning. She stepped gingerly down from the verandah. It was a step of about fifty centimetres and normally she would manage it with ease. Today, it felt like leaping off a small cliff and her head pounded again as her feet thudded down onto the wet grass.
She groaned. There was a dipper hanging beside the water butt and she seized it eagerly, scooping up cold water and bringing it to her lips, letting it run across her foul-tasting mouth and tongue and down her parched throat. She emptied the dipper in one continuous draught and paused, breathing heavily, heart pounding.
For a moment, the dreadful thirst was slaked. Then it seemed as if she hadn’t drunk at all and the awful-tasting dryness was back. She scooped up another dipper and drank, then another.
The cold water was delicious, but its soothing effect lasted barely thirty seconds. She looked at the water, then, setting her hands on either side of the barrel, she plunged her face into it.
The shock of cold was startling. But it seemed to clear her head and eyes. She reared back, throwing water in all directions, feeling it splash down inside her collar. She gasped and spluttered but she felt a little better.