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trouble, n’est-ce pas ?”
    The situation was not ideal, but at least her headache had gone.

    ~ Did you find him, Daughter? Did you see him? ~
    Tethys was eager, excited, with the high, quick laughter of a young girl, although she was as old as Time.
    Her daughter remained silent, oblivious of her sodden state. Yes, she had seen him, but she would not, yet, be telling her mother of it. A handsome man, gentle but strong. Lean but muscled. Black hair that curled below his shoulders, a moustache and a jaw line beard. Large, dark, expressive eyes. A golden acorn dangling from his ear. Blue ribbons were laced into that black hair. A handsome man? No. He was beautiful.
    She watched the pretty woman from the little boat talk to the two men wearing the cherry-red coats. Watched as she walked away with them.
    Mother had said nothing about her!
    Melting from sight as the Witch came nearer, she faded into the curtain of rain, masking her presence from the exploring feel of questioning thoughts that had briefly touched her existence.
    No, Mother had said nothing of the Wising Woman, the Witch.

Five
    Jesamiah was seated on a hard, wooden bench at the far corner of his cell, one knee bent, the other leg straight, arms loosely folded, back wedged into the corner. His three-cornered hat was tipped well down over his eyes. He was asleep. A gentle snore the only sound, apart from the squeak of rats and rustle of cockroaches. Three walls of solid brick and a fourth of iron bars. Gaol. At least on this occasion he was not expecting the prospect of a noose tightening around his neck in a few day’s time. Mind, the absence of a tot or two of rum was almost as hard to face.
    The outer door opened, a shaft of light bobbed in adding to the one feeble lamp giving a faint apology of illumination. Voices, footsteps; the crunch of snail shells beneath treading boots. It was always cold and damp and stank of rat pee, mildew and human waste in these dungeons. There were two cells, both eyeing each other across a narrow corridor. The other one was full of mouldering straw – straw that very possibly hid things of a lot more value than dried, musty, wheat stalks. Kegs of fine French brandy or hogsheads of tobacco? Caskets of Spanish gold? An ideal secret cache, a prison cell. No one bothered searching where the dregs of life spent their last hours.
    Opening one eye, Jesamiah peeped at the door to his cell as it spine-chillingly grated along the stone floor. Hornsea. No one more important. Closed his eye, was instantly asleep again, his mind partially registering the one they were putting in here with him must be dead drunk unconscious, for he was very quiet. The door clanged shut, the key turned with a click of finality, the stronger lamplight receded with the crunch of footsteps. The outer door opened; closed. Jesamiah lapsed into a rasping snore.
    “You stupid, stupid idiot! Can you never think before you act?” Someone was swiping at his head, knocking his hat off, tugging his leg away from the bench. He half fell, half rolled.
    “What the fokken sod d’ye think ye’r…?” pulled up short. Grinned meekly. “Ah. Tiola. Sweetheart.”
    “Do not ‘sweetheart’ me, you cock-shrivelled, scabrous barnacle!”
    Jesamiah took a step away from her flailing arms, held his hands up, palm outermost in pliant surrender. “What you doin’ ‘ere darlin’? I ain’t in trouble, don’t you go makin’ a harvest out of a pinch o’ corn. The Gov’nor thought I ought to cool me temper off a bit, that’s…”
    Tiola slapped his cheek, her strength enough to send him reeling backwards. He sat down, hard, on the bench. Winced as the repercussion shot up his spine. Put his hand to his stinging face.
    “Not in trouble? Oh yes you are, Jesamiah Acorne. You are in big trouble! With me!” She slapped him again, harder, the blow taking his breath away. She looked nothing standing no more than about three fingers taller than five feet in her stockings, and