Page 122 of The Moorwitch

But just as I begin to untie it from my wrist, Sylvie pulls back.

“I can stop it,” she whispers.

“You don’t have thread.”

“I tried to tell you before,” she replies. “I don’tneedthread.”

She begins to channel, her eyes shut, hands in fists. I shout and reach for her.

“You’ll burst your heart!” I say, though I’d been about to Weave a spell to do just that. “Sylvie—”

“I can stop it,” she says through her teeth.

The walls, ceiling, and floor groan around us. The flames flicker and warp. The world seems to twist around Sylvie as she wrenches energy from it, wrings it from every leaf and branch around. I feel behind me and find the Dwirra branch stuck through my sash has gone brittle and dry, its life force sucked out of it.

With a cry, Sylvie throws her arms wide and opens her eyes.

I watch in shock as her pupils turn silver, the tips of her ears stretch into graceful points, and the very bones in her face sharpen and grow longer, her body transforming before me. It reminds me of a glamour spell fading away, revealing a true form, but this is a different magic altogether.

I remember at once a dozen whispers, a score of subtle hints: Sylvie’s way with animals, her astonishing power, Conrad’s mistrust of her magic, Mrs. MacDougal’s mention of Liam North’s faerie paramour.

My father,Conrad had said, in those last, awful moments I was with him,I think he loved her.

Sylvie’s ghost, her silent watcher, glinting like silver mist in the trees.

I look at Sylvie’s black hair and emerald irises, and I know then who she is.

All around us, the flames begin to wither and shrink, reduced by Sylvie’s strange, threadless magic until they are nothing but smoldering ash and plumes of thick, dark smoke. I have no idea how she is doing it, but I know I’ve seen this type of spellwork before, woven by Lachlan when he’d warmed me on the cold night of Lorellan’s funeral. I can only watch as the girl channels by some instinct deep within her, beyond my ken.

Then, spent, Sylvie pitches into me with a soft cry.

I catch her, as silence falls over the manor. The blaze is out, leaving smoke thick enough to kill us still.

So I lift Morgaine’s daughter in my arms and carry her, pressing her face into my shoulder so she doesn’t inhale too much smoke, and holding my breath as long as I can until we reach the front foyer, where it is a little thinner. Captain races ahead of us, barking.

Finally I push through the half-gaping front doors and stumble into the drive, falling hard onto my knees and gasping for air. Sylvie rolls from my weakened arms, coughing and choking, looking herself again, but for the still slightly pointed tips of her ears.

It is only after several minutes of coughing and wiping tears from my burning eyes that I look up.

And see Lachlan and all his fae standing in the drive, watching us.

On the Briar King’s brow rests a crown of silver thorns.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Lachlan is dressed in armor, his silver breastplate exquisitely engraved with stars and moons. His hand rests on a sheathed sword, and his white hair hangs down his back in a long, tight braid. He is glorious and terrible with all trappings of the human world cast aside. And with the ward destroyed, he wasted no time closing in on us. His host of exiles are also dressed for battle, silver and shining all, like something out of a story. They carry scarlet pennants that snap in the lowering wind and magic torches with silvery flames.

Sylvie sees Lachlan and gasps with remembrance, the sight of him enough to shatter the fog of the memory spell he’d put on her. She pulls close to me, and I put an arm around her as we both rise. Captain plants himself in front of us, his fur coated in ash, his hackles high as he snarls. The MacDougals stand to the side, solemn and pale, looking between us and the faerie king.

Lachlan steps forward and slowly claps, his eyes black ice.

“Well done, my little witch,” he says. “Well done indeed.”

I reach behind my back to grasp the Dwirra branch. I wonder if he knows it is withered and dry thanks to Sylvie’s channeling. I wonder if that will matter to him.

“You enchanted her,” I spit. “She nearly died for it!”

“Nonsense.” He looks at her, his eyes greedy. “My niece is strong, despite her regrettable human blood.”