The smell of the spilt wine filled the air, the stench of magic mingling with the fumes of alcohol and rosemary. He felt hot and cold with fear at the thought of all that she could have taken. Not just the memory of the river – but more, perhaps. The memory of why he was here. The memory of his task. And he would have known nothing until the Malleus came for him one night, with a knife between his ribs. The thought was like a cold hand round his heart. He could not kill Rosa. He knew that now. He was a coward, through and through. One of them must die – but he could not kill her. It was as simple and as wretched as that. Which left – only him. And so – what now? Back to Spitalfields? It was unthinkable. What could he say when they asked him about his mission? I’ve decided not to do it. The girl was young and pretty. I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t have the guts.
