We ran towards the music, tripping and giggling over the frosty grass. Reaching the far side of the field, we slowed to a walk to get our breath back.
‘Oh Mercy!’ I squealed. ‘Look!’
A square had been marked out for dancing. In each corner a flaming torch burned, and there were hay bales for sitting on, most of which were already occupied. No one was dancing yet, but that square of ice-white grass looked so inviting, it made my insides tremble. For the first time all evening, I felt my spirits truly lift. I’d no idea how I’d keep to my promise of just two dances. Mercy, though, had turned glum again.
‘I hope Isaac isn’t here,’ she said.
I rolled my eyes. This Isaac Blake business had turned her into something of a sop. ‘Have you two had cross words or something?’
‘Might’ve,’ she said, flicking her hair over her shoulder. ‘We were meant to go walking today but he said he had a sick pig to tend. Honestly, Lizzie, he cares more for those animals than he ever does for me. So if he asks me to dance tonight, I shan’t.’
I glanced at her sideways. Good, I thought. It was time she realised boys like Isaac Blake weren’t a catch. She was better off without him.
At the edge of the dancing space, people had started jostling and cheering. We stood on tiptoe to get a look. With a sudden roar, the crowd parted. Cheers went up as a boy, his eyes covered in a red scarf, stumbled into the square.
‘Oh!’ I cried, clapping my hands in delight. ‘It’s the blindfold game!’
It was an old Midwinter’s Eve tradition. Whoever the blindfolded person touched then became their true love. Last year, Miss Parks the postmistress touched the arm of Mr Henderson, who owned the biggest farm in Sweepfield. Mam had sworn it was an accident, that Miss Parks had just slipped in the mud. Yet sure enough, the two were married by Easter.
Amidst whooping and whistling, the blindfolded boy did an unsteady lap of the crowd. His big flappy feet looked familiar, somehow. So did his tufty brown hair. Mercy clearly thought the same.
‘It’s Isaac in the blindfold!’ Mercy gripped my arm. ‘Let’s get closer! Quick!’
I frowned. ‘Hold on, I thought you said …’
But she was already elbowing her way down to the front, dragging me with her.
‘Isaac!’ Mercy cried, positioning herself right in his path.
The cheering got louder. Faster. Isaac came back in our direction again. Mercy stretched out her arm.
‘Over here!’ she cried, waving madly. ‘Isaac! It’s me!’
There was no telling whether he could hear her. There was too much whooping. Too much shouting. Whipped up in the excitement, I became part of it, jeering so loud my throat hurt. Isaac came closer – close enough for me to see the dirt under his fingernails. Mercy leant as far forward as she could until their hands were just inches apart. Then, right at the last, he turned away. The crowd let out a mighty ‘Ohhhh!’
‘Go to him!’ I said, nudging Mercy, for by now I suspected he knew it was her and was playing up on purpose.
All of a sudden, Isaac stopped. He reached out again in our direction. Oh crikey! In my direction! Though I twisted away, he somehow got hold of me.
‘Get off, you great idiot!’ I hissed.
Instead, he lifted my arm above his head like a prize. A massive, roaring cheer went up, making me want to die on the spot. I hardly dared look at Mercy, who I could feel was staring daggers at me. I tried to escape Isaac’s grasp but he held on tight. And with his free hand he pulled down his blindfold to gawp at me like the halfwit he was.
‘Lizzie Appleby?’ he said. ‘It can’t be true.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It honestly can’t be.’ Flustered, I tried to make Mercy swap places with me.
‘Stop it!’ she cried.
Shaking me off, she ducked through the crowd. Isaac let go of me. I rushed after my friend – my best friend. ‘Mercy! Wait a minute!’
Isaac called out too. ‘Awww, come on now, Mercy! Don’t take on. I was only joking.’
Our cries fell on deaf ears. Without a backwards glance, Mercy struck out across the field.
‘It’s only a game, Mercy. Come on!’ I yelled.
She was heading for the field gate; I could just about see the pale grey of her shawl glowing in the darkness. Behind me, Isaac’s voice grew fainter and crosser. ‘Don’t listen, then. See if I care, Mercy Matthews.’
Mercy didn’t stop. Once through the gate, she went straight down the lane to the churchyard, which was the quickest route home. I lost sight of her after that. And by the time I reached the field gate, I felt proper dismal. Mercy didn’t honestly think I liked Isaac, did she? It was only a stupid village tradition.
Up ahead, the church clock chimed midnight. I didn’t fancy taking the shortcut through the churchyard with only the light of the comet to guide me. The trees overhead were stark and bare, their shadows as spindly as a dead woman’s fingers. So I took the long way home, through the centre of Sweepfield past the village green. Lost to my sorrows, I didn’t hear footsteps behind me. A hand fell heavy on my shoulder. I spun round so fast, my heart stopped.
‘Shhhh! It’s me! Don’t scream!’
Mercy stood before me. I half gasped, half laughed with relief.
‘We mustn’t quarrel over that stupid boy …’ I stopped.
Mercy wasn’t angry, I realised. Her face had gone as pale as her shawl. A chill passed right through me.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ I said.
She took both my hands. Her fingers were freezing cold. ‘I’ve just seen something awful in the churchyard.’
‘What, Isaac Blake?’
‘I saw your mam, Lizzie. And I think I saw you too.’
I snatched my hands from hers.
‘That’s a mean trick to play,’ I said. ‘Are you getting back at me over Isaac?’
‘No! Honest!’
Something in her look made me believe her. I knew the superstition as well as she did. Pass by a church at midnight on Midwinter’s Eve and you’d see entering it the souls of those who’d face death within the year. Those who came out again would survive. And those who didn’t …
‘It’s a stupid tradition,’ I said, quickly. ‘Just like that blindfold game. You mustn’t believe it, because it doesn’t mean a thing. Anyway, Mam and me – we both came out again, didn’t we?’
Mercy put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, Lizzie,’ she said, and started to cry.