Page 13 of The Moorwitch
Long before I wove the spell to summon the faerie, magic was my freedom. Magic was my hope. Magic told me that if I studiedhard and practiced often, one day I might Weave for myself whatever life I wished.
And I would sacrifice all that for ... what? Pride? Stubbornness? A life of destitution on the streets, now that even a desperate charity school will not employ me?
For magic, I would sacrifice anything.
I lift my teacup and drain the lukewarm contents and wish it were something more bracing.
Then, setting down the cup, I meet the faerie’s eyes and say, “You want me to break into the world of the fae, steal a magic branch from a sacred tree, and get away whole again? And in return, my debt to you will be paid in full?”
His eyes spark like blue fire. “When you have delivered to me a branch from the Dwirra Tree, Rose Pryor, your debt to me will be paid in full.”
“Will you tell me nothing more? How dangerous is this? How do I enter Elfhame? How do I escape again?”
“We’ve a journey ahead of us. There will be time for all that.”
“Well,” I cast about, feeling as if I’ve stepped into a rushing current and lost my footing. “Can I know your name?”
The faerie draws his hand to his chin, his lips curling into a dangerous smile. “My name?”
“If I am to undertake this impossible and deadly favor, I’d like, at the very least, to know the name of the creature pulling my strings.”
He laughs, and every head in the room turns his way as that rolling, lovely laughter shatters his glamour spells and reveals his true form, from his too-long fingers to his pointed ears to the unnatural sharpness of his teeth. I look around in alarm, expecting someone to cry out “Demon!”
Instead I find myself staring atdozensof pointed ears and sharpened teeth, as the creatures I’d been fooled into taking for other patrons now shed their glamours as well. Even the fiddler leers at me, his face gleaming with scales. I am surrounded by a host of fae, and theirlaughter is like the chittering of beetles, their eyes bulbous and black. There is no sign of Emma or any other human.
Chills crawl over my scalp. I half rise from my chair, breathless and shocked, as they cackle at my expression. The entire inn is populated with their kind, a veritable hive of immortals, all elongated limbs and silken, ageless skin. And the one seated before me, I sense with sudden certainty, is their leader.
“Very well,” says the faerie, his cool eyes never leaving my face. “You may call me Lachlan.”
Chapter Four
I wake the next morning in a high bed, burrowed beneath three blankets and wrapped in delicious warmth provided by the still-glowing coals in the little hearth. Lachlan had purchased me a room at the Red Finch, one of their finest, at a price I couldn’t have afforded with even a month’s wages from my teaching salary. But despite the soft bed, it had taken me hours to fall asleep, worrying whether I was a fool to agree to this mad mission. It didn’t help that Lachlan had rented every other room in the inn for his faerie cohorts, and they carried their reveling on through the night, drinking and banging about and singing strange, lilting songs in a whispery tongue I did not recognize. How a community of the creatures could cavort so openly in the heart of London while avoiding notice, Fates only know. It makes me wonder how long they have been here, and if there are far more than I ever knew.
Not that I know much about faeries. They fit into the same category as ghosts, demons, and selkies; that is, most folk prefer to not believe in them at all, except perhaps on the darkest and most storm-ridden of nights, when even the wildest stories feel possible. If it were not for that fateful summoning spell I found in my uncle’s study, perhaps I, too, would be a skeptic. The most commonly accepted explanation for them is that it was the fae who taught magic to humans, long ago, before vanishing from the world forever.
Clearly, at least half that story is false.
When I push myself out of bed at last, I find a new dress laid out on a wing-backed chair by the hearth, blue linen, plain but tasteful, with a new corset and petticoat. I put them on queasily, wondering who left them, and who chose them for me. They fit perfectly.
“Miss Pryor.”
I turn and see Emma standing in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Mr. Murdoch says to tell you he’s waiting below.”
It takes me a moment to remember Mr. Murdoch is my faerie. Lachlan Murdoch. A common name for an uncommon creature, and I have no doubt it is not his true name. Not that I’d prefer any other—the less I know of him, the sooner I can put him and all this behind me. If I can just keep my head down and fetch him this branch, I’ll owe him nothing more and never have to see him again.
“Where is my other dress?” I ask.
“Mr. Murdoch had us burn it.”
My face heats. Perhaps my things were threadbare and unfashionable, but they weremine.
In the dim saloon, my faerie escort waits, with several of his followers hovering about. Their guises don’t fool me now that I’ve already seen through them. But in my periphery, I see glimmers of their magic, beards and bellies and liver spots that humanize them to all other eyes.
Lachlan, however, would be resplendent in any form. Today he wears all black, even his cravat spilling from his collar like silken ebony. His hair is loose but neatly combed, tucked behind his pointed ears. He stands in the parlor as if he owns it, cocky as a king.
“Well,” he says, looking me up and down. “You are a bluebird in midwinter, Rose Pryor. I knew that gown would suit you.”