Page 102 of The Moorwitch

“Sylvie! Sylvie!”

When I am near enough to see the blue ribbon in her hair, she turns and smiles.

“Hello, Rose.”

Slowing, my hands going to my knees as I pant for breath, I gauge the scene. Lachlan sits easily in his high-backed, upholstered chair, watching me passively. Sylvie’s legs dangle; she kicks them happily and sips from a dainty teacup. There are sweets on the table, with tea and strawberries and a little bouquet of snowdrops, their soft petals as white as Lachlan’s hair.

“Tea?” he asks me. “We’ve eaten all the berry tarts, I’m afraid, but there are still some butter scones.”

Lurching forward, I grab Sylvie’s hand and pull her to me. She drops the cup, and it shatters on the gleaming white carpet laid beneath the tent.

“Rose!” she cries. “I am having tea with my new friend! Don’t be rude.”

Putting myself between him and her, I face the faerie with my fury scorching my skin, a tide of curses simmering behind my teeth. “What did you do? How did you find her?”

“She foundme!” he protests, spreading his hands innocently.

“Aye, I did,” Sylvie affirms.

I turn around to stare at her, then notice a battered valise sitting by the table. “Sylvie ... you were running away?”

“It was only for a little while,” Sylvie says. “To make Connie understand how much I want to Weave magic. I’m tired of hiding it from him! He only needs to miss me for bit. Then I would come back, and he’d change his mind. I want to show him what I can do,how I can raise a river from its bed and make boulders fly and even do magic without—”

“Sylvie.Enough.” I squeeze her shoulder and glance furiously at Lachlan.

“Do you not see the pain you cause me?” He gives an innocuous shrug. “I find a little girl lost on the moors, and I save her, and yetI’mthe villain?”

I turn to Sylvie. “Did he touch you, or do anything—?”

“He wasgoingto show me some magic, until you interrupted,” she says. “He’s a Weaver like us!”

“Indeed,” agrees Lachlan, eyes glinting. “Watch closely, little Miss North.”

Before I can get a word out, his quick fingers twist his silver threads, and with a sigh, Sylvie slumps to her knees, then curls up like a sleeping cat.

I cry out and catch her, checking for a pulse.

“She’s only sleeping,” Lachlan says. “And I assure you, she is entirely unharmed.”

Slowly, I reach for my spools.

Lachlan gives an imperious click of his tongue. “You know you cannot best me in a battle of threads, Rose Pryor.”

I try anyway, thread hissing as I wrench it loose. But I don’t even have time to break a length of it off, because Lachlan twists his fingers in the air, Weaving without thread. Invisible hands take hold of my hair and drag me down, bashing my head against the ground. I cry out, grasping at the white carpet, tears pricking my eyes as the roots of my hair scream in pain.

“What do you want with Sylvie?” I gasp out.

“I am telling you the truth when I say I found her. And what afascinatingcreature she is.”

I look at Sylvie, unable to reach her for the spell gripping my hair. She lies so still, her face porcelain, her dark curls unbound and spillingover the carpet. She is dressed today in a white frock, lace down the front and grass stains on the skirt.

“Where are all your fae?” I demand. “Why is the castle empty?”

“The hour is late,” he replies. “Events move apace, and I have dispatched my people to the four winds, to prepare themselves and gather the rest of our kin.”

“What does that mean? What are you plotting now?”

“Were you going somewhere?” Lachlan catches my question and turns it back on me, like a knife plucked from my hand. “You are dressed for travel.”