Page 106 of The Moorwitch

He knocks at my door that evening.

With a shiver, I put my shawl over my gown and go to the door. I hesitate a moment, my hand against it.

“Rose?”

I flinch away.

His voice is soft and cautious. “I know it’s late, but you didn’t come to dinner, and I wanted to be sure you were feeling well. And I ... have a gift for you.”

I glance at the tray of uneaten mince pie Mrs. MacDougal had delivered to me. I’d had no appetite for food, and even less for company.Hiscompany, in particular. I can’t trust myself around him anymore; I’m not at all sure whether I might hex him or kiss him. And after the violent turn in my fortunes today, my greatest fear was that I’d blurt it all out, tell him everything, and earn his eternal hatred.

“I was just going to bed,” I say. A lie, of course. I was about to climb out the window and set off for the stone circle, to find my way into Elfhame by whatever means necessary. The clock on the wall ticks out the remaining hours of my life, every second making Lachlan’s string around my heart tighten.

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed. “Well. Tomorrow, then. My apologies.”

He begins walking away.

I rest my head against the door and let out a breath, my pulse drumming in my ears. Then I pull it open.

“Conrad.”

He turns, his face brightening. He’s combed his hair and put on a clean coat and kilt, even had his shoes shined. He looks a proper laird.

I bite my lip, torn between the ticking of the clock and the warmth in his eyes.

“Come in,” I say at last.

Conrad steps into my room. I face him, wondering if he can hear the hammering of my heart. Just being this close to him is like standing by an open furnace. Heat warms my skin; the hairs on my arms stand on end. He smells of hay and horse beneath the bergamot of his shaving soap.

“I brought you something.” He takes a small box from his pocket. But then his eyes fasten on something folded on the dresser by thewindow, and he slides the box back into his coat. “Wait a moment. Is that ...?”

I suck in a breath, about to stop him, but he’s already moving across the room. I still my hands and wait as he picks up the folded cloth and lets it unfurl between his hands.

The ever-present worry lines in his brow ease for once as a look of realization, then wonder, steals over his face. The knitted fabric bunches in his hands as he lowers them to gaze at me.

“My mother’s shawl,” he says.

“Yes ...” I reply haltingly. I’d planned for him to find it after I departed, a farewell gift ... and an apology. Now I can only watch helplessly as he surveys my handiwork, the result of many late hours’ toil by candlelight in my room.

The colors are vibrant again after a gentle washing, the dust rinsed from its fibers. Threads of yellow, blue, green, and red swirl and dance across the shawl, a dizzying chaos of color. The longer I stare at it, the more the chaos reveals order, the riot of threads transformed into intricate flowers and vines, like a garden slowly coming into focus.

“I should have asked,” I say. “Before I touched it. I apologize if I overstepped.”

He says nothing for a long moment. He pulls the shawl through his hands, studying the patterns. “You repaired it.”

“Yes. I think a mouse had been at the edges, and half of it had come undone. But I was able to find the pattern and knit it back together.”

I watch, resisting the anxious urge to wring my hands as he sits on the velvet settee under the window. My eyes flit again to the clock, the seconds draining away.

The shawl ripples across Conrad’s thighs and spills over his knees. His large hand smooths the fabric as if it were delicate gossamer at risk of tearing with his touch. It won’t. I was meticulous with my work, knitting strength back into the threads, restoring the pattern to its original durability.

“It’s been years since I ...” He raises the shawl to his lips and breathes it in. “It still carries her scent.”

I nod. I’d been careful to use no soaps on it, hoping to preserve the gentle fragrance of jasmine that had been embedded in the fibers.

“What do they mean?” he asks. “Are they spells?”

I sit delicately beside him, intensely aware of the inches between us, and trace the whirling patterns that curl around the edges of the scarf. They are mesmerizing, reminiscent of Sanskrit, but all formed from a single continuous line.