Page 105 of The Moorwitch
Lachlan leans over me, putting his hand on my head as if I were a dog.
“There, there,” he says, but there is no soothing note in his voice, only terrible, hollow indifference. “Play nicely and there will be no need to harm you.”
“Youbastard,” I choke out.
“Every choice has consequences, my dear, and make no mistake about what you chose here today: Your heart belongs to me, and with it, your magic, your freedom, yourlife. The only thing saving you right now is the fact that you may be of some use to me yet.”
He pulls me up by my chin, till I’m on my knees, trembling and horrified. “Now bring me what I desire, dear Rose, or I’ll have no more use for you at all.”
Chapter Thirty
I carry Sylvie halfway back to Ravensgate with no aid from my magic; my chest still radiates pain from Lachlan’s twisted demonstration. She seemed not very heavy at first, no more than a few skeins of cloth, but the further I walk the heavier she becomes until at last, I sink to my knees and lay her carefully on the grass. It is an open spot, with a great view of the land around, the forest outside Blackswire a dark smudge on the horizon. To our left, the hills are still blackened and scorched by the fire Tarkin started and which Conrad put out, but the first new blades of grass are starting to soften the charred land. The moor is awakening from its wintry dormancy, adding new shades of green to its quilt of browns and golds and reds. Fresh growth pushes up through damp soil, curious and bright, providing a soft carpet for Sylvie to lie on.
Out of breath, I sit beside her with my back against a rock and stare up at the blue sky, where fragments of cloud glide smoothly on a high wind. Their shadows run over the earth, pools of deep blue gray ever shifting, strange to watch. It is as lovely a day as one could ask for, the temperature pleasantly cool, the wind lazy and low, ruffling the tufted golden grasses in a perfunctory fashion.
None of it does anything to soothe the tempest in my breast.
Stupid.
Stupid, stupid,stupid girl. My aunt’s voice creeps into my thoughts.You don’t deserve magic. Your soul is too twisted, your sins too great. May your threads be your curse as you have been mine.
I draw one hand up, place it over my pounding, aching heart. My weary, battered heart, beating away despite all the torment my naivety and foolishness has inflicted upon it. I wish I could pull it from behind my ribs and cradle it in my hands like a wounded bird; I wish I could set it free, watch it soar across the moors.
I might have been free, if Lachlan had not had Sylvie to leverage me. Whether he’d known I’d intended to break my vow today or not, I suppose the end result is the same. While I’d been pondering my escape, waffling in indecision, he’d already been in motion, laying down the final pieces of his plan. Putting me in an impossible corner, cutting off my last avenue of escape.
I try to imagine why he hadn’t simply kept Sylvie and used her as a hostage to control Conrad. It makes little sense, but that only puts me on my guard. Lachlan cannot touch a thing without tying a dozen strings to it, to turn it to his use.
After a few minutes, I gather enough strength—and courage—to attempt a Weave. The magic comes when I call it, but only a thin stream of it, a strained trickle where it had once come in a rush. It takes all my effort to channel it into my smoke knot, which I have strung on my pegboard. The threads catch and hold the energy, then dissolve to ash, the magic converted into a pillar of magenta smoke that twists high into the air. I can only hope it will be a large enough signal to catch Conrad’s eye, wherever he is. Then, exhausted, I lean back and close my eyes, too tired to even think of attempting another spell, or carrying Sylvie any further.
She wakes some ten minutes later, with a soft exhalation of surprise. I sit up and watch her very carefully, as she rubs the haze of Lachlan’s spell from her eyes and looks around.
“Oh,” she says. “I fell asleep!”
“What were you doing out here?” I ask gingerly. “What do you remember?”
She stares at me, her eyes still a bit vacant, but there is no flash of remembrance in her, no sudden gasp as she recalls the faerie lord who gave her tea and strawberries.
“I ... ran away,” she begins. “I was angry at Connie.”
“And?”
“And ...” She frowns, as if encountering a foggy patch in her memory. “I must have got tired. I must have laid down.”
“Indeed you did.” Memory-altering magic, much like glamours, is a fickle thing, and does not stand up well to pressure. Prod the holes in your memory hard enough and the magic will collapse like a castle made of sand. “Come home, Sylvie. Your brother loves you with all his heart, magic or no magic.”
Tears glisten in her eyes. “I love him too, more than anything. I just wish he would understand me.”
I squeeze her hand. “He does, better than you know.”
Moments later, Conrad thunders up on Bell, his eyes finding Sylvie at once. The blood drains from his face and he flings himself at her, gathering her up and checking her all over for injury, despite her annoyed protests.
“What’s the matter with you, Connie?” she asks, shoving him away. “I’m all right.”
“What have I told you about wandering off? There are—”
“Highwaymen, aye, I know,” she drones. “Perhaps I wished to join their band.”
He groans, then glances at me in silent query. I stare back blandly and tell him how I found her asleep on the moor, safe and sound, and that all his worries had been for naught.