Excerpt from The Hocus Girl by Chris Nickson, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

'You can't bring her back,' Simon said gently.

'I know.' She laid it on the trestle and stroked the fabric once more. 'I just wondered how many others have worn it since.'

She put her arm through his and they began to move. Past farmers selling butter and cheeses brought from the country. Last autumn's fruit. Sacks bulging with onions and potatoes. A tinker offering mended pans. And everywhere, talk and more talk. A constant, roaring ocean of sound to fill the town.


Simon watched, noticing every face as his wife chattered. People, information; they were his stock in trade. Down near the Old King's Arms, she nudged him.

'Isn't that George Ericsson?'

The man strode up the other side of Briggate, eyes fixed straight ahead. Tall, with wide shoulders and a grave, solemn face.

'It is. I'd heard he was back,' Simon said.

Ericsson was a timber merchant, a Swede, with a warehouse down on the river. For the last five years he'd been in Stockholm, leaving his oldest son Jonas to handle business here. The lad had done well; with so many factories and houses rising these days, the demand for wood was high.

'He looks a lot older,' Rosie said, staring.

True enough, Simon thought. Time hadn't been kind to the man. It had worn down the planes of his face and turned the pale blond hair a sharp, brilliant white.

'His wife's returned with him, too,' he said. 'Rounder than ever, someone told me.'

'Hardly surprising. She used to eat everything in sight.'

'I didn't think you knew her.'

Rosie shook her head, hair rippling under the broad hat. 'I used to see her in the shops. She always expected a special price, as if she was doing them a favour by gracing them with her custom.'

'Did they give it to her?'

Rosie gave him a withering look. 'Don't you know better than that, Simon? They'd quote something higher, then make a show of taking that off.'

He laughed.

It was rare for them to have time together, the two of them alone, a luxury worth more than money. Just the chance to stroll, to observe, and to enjoy the May sunshine. Their boys, Richard and Amos, were in Kirkstall for a few days, staying with Mrs Burton and her husband to enjoy the early days of good weather.

Jane, the girl who worked with him, was off somewhere. He'd heard her leave the house first thing that morning, sliding away into the dawn.

They turned the corner on to Swinegate as Rosie talked. She had a sharp eye and a wicked tongue, and she relished taking aim at the great and good ladies of the town. Simon let the words flow over him. Then she halted in mid-sentence, standing still on the pavement.

'That's Emily Ashton at our door.'

He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the figure by the step. In her early forties, wearing an old calico dress, a shawl across her shoulders, turned away from them. Only the dark red hair gave her away, coiled up on her head.

'You're right.'


The Ashtons had looked after him. He'd walked away from the workhouse, aged thirteen, a boy filled with anger, trying to pull together a life he could call his own. Too often he'd gone hungry or slept out in the bitter cold. But when Simon could take no more, desperate for warmth or a meal in his belly, he could go to see Emily Ashton and her brother Davey at their house on Mabgate. They gave him sanctuary.

Emily would feed him and put down a blanket by the hearth. Her brother would fill his head with words. Ideas. Equality, brotherhood, dignity, hope.

They saved him. They shaped him.

'Emily,' he called.

She turned and began to run towards them, the panic plain on her face. Simon wrapped his arms around her. Emily shook, tears running down her cheeks.

'What is it?'

'It's Davey.' The words were a helpless sob, choking in her mouth. For a moment he thought the man was dead. 'They've taken him.'

Excerpted from The Hocus Girl by Chris Nickson. Copyright © 2020 by Chris Nickson. Excerpted by permission of Severn House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.