Page 115 of The Moorwitch
“The left ear it is!” Morgaine announces.
Two faeries seize Conrad and shove him to the floor. The queen raises her sword.
“Stop!” I cry. “I’m here! Fates damn you, I am here!”
They all turn: fae and queen and mortal man, to stare at me, a thousand beetle eyes and Conrad’s dismayed expression.
“Rose—” he begins, but he is cut short as the queen sweeps by him. The fae part, forming a corridor that leads to me. I feel as small as a sparrow in that grand, ancient doorway, facing down the advancing queen of the immortals, but I keep my chin high and do my level best not to pass out from sheer terror. My heart throbs, as if Lachlan senses my treachery and does not like it, not one bit.
She reaches me faster than I could have anticipated, crossing the hall more quickly than any human could. I brace for her touch, expecting some curse or her silver sword in my belly. But she only stops before me and looms.
“It’s not his fault,” I say. “I tricked him, but still he came to you to warn you. Don’t you see? He would not betray you!”
She only watches me, her green eyes nearly black, sharp as a hawk’s. I look around her, to Conrad standing on the stairs, one hand half extended, as if he’s afraid of moving beyond that lest he inspire some savage reaction in the queen.
“Your brother sent me to take a branch from the Dwirra to restore his strength.”
“To restore his strength,” she echoes hollowly.
I nod. “But you see, I have not brought him so much as a twig. The moment Conrad learned my true intentions, he imprisoned me in his manor. He stood by his duty to you, and the only one here who deserves blame isme. I am just what you say I am: a liar, a trap, atool, only I did not know the extent of it until recently. But all the fault is my own, not Conrad’s. Please—”
I cut short with a gasp of pain.
Morgaine’s sword point finds my shoulder; its sharp edge presses into my collarbone, as her eyes flutter briefly closed before opening again. “So that’s the way of it, then.” She looks at me differently, not with anger, nor with pity. Only ... blankness, as if I am of no consequence at all. “You foolish child,” she murmurs. “Did you know what the cost would be, when you struck your bargain with the King of Exiles?”
I press my hand to my heart.
“How long do you have?” she asks.
“Until midnight,” I whisper.
“What?” Conrad’s eyes snap to me. “What are you talking about?”
Morgaine shakes her head. Slowly, she lowers the sword, resting its point between her feet. “You poor witless naïf.” She turns to two faerie guards. “Lock her away, and let her own mistake do the rest.”
“What are you doing?” Conrad cries. “What will you—?”
“Nothing,” she says, turning and giving him a hard look. “I need do nothing at all. For in a few hours, she’ll be no threat to us anymore. She has sold her heart to the Briar King, and by midnight, she will be dead.”
He stares from her to me, his eyes wild with confusion and horror.
“You should be glad, Connie,” Morgaine says, her voice flat. “By coming here, the treacherous little witch has touched my merciful side. You may keep your ear, Gatekeeper. This time.”
I close my eyes, feeling a tear drop to my cheek. I’d thought I could take any risk for the sake of magic—for the chance to live free of the fear my aunt beat into me. All I ever wanted was to be free and unafraid. I knew. Iknewwhat I was risking, and I had thought myself strong enough to beat the odds.
But what I hadn’t known was that there might be one thing—one thing—I would find more precious to me than magic.
One thing I would not be able to sacrifice.
I look up and meet Conrad’s gaze for just a moment, and then the faerie guards pull me away.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The room is small and peculiar, the walls ribbed with wooden beams which bend overhead and meet in a high apex; it takes me perhaps twenty minutes of staring blankly up at that ceiling before I realize the room is shaped to resemble an ornate birdcage.
A simple narrow bed, a broken harpsichord, and a faded carpet are all that furnish the space. I sit in the center of the room with my knees drawn to my chest, my hands wrapped around my legs, still wearing the resplendent gown and silken gloves. How ridiculous I feel now, to have thought dressing up as one of them could possibly have made a difference. How ridiculous and small, and every other wretched quality I saw reflected back at myself in the faerie queen’s emerald eyes. Her very glance had diminished me to nothing more than a bird with a broken wing, fluttering pitiably on the floor. And now she has put me in a cage, to let my foolishness finish me off.
I feel Lachlan’s touch even here, his hand squeezing my heart, his fury at my failure scorching my ribs. I wonder if he knows the exact nature of my circumstances, or if he only has the general feel of them, or if perhaps he knows nothing at all and his cursed hold on me is simply following its natural course, the pain increasing as my sand drains from the hourglass he set on my life.