Page 2 of The Moorwitch

Never do I feel more alive, more bright, more powerful than when I channel magic. I wish I could feel like this always. Aunt Lenore wouldn’t dare lay a finger or anything else on me then. I wouldn’t let her.

But I can’t keep it all inside me, or I’ll burst apart like an ember cracking from heat.

I let the magic flow out of my fingertips and into the Weave stretched between them. The thread glows gold until it brightens the whole library. Frightening shadows leap up from the chairs and sofa and the wooden globe on its stand. My spell is almost too bright to look at.

Maybe the Fatesarelistening, because it works. Before me, the broken shards skitter over the carpet, piecing their jagged edges together like a puzzle cleverly assembling itself.

I give a long sigh of relief as the threads I wove with turn to ash. This I carefully brush into a cigar box I brought just for this purpose; I’ll be sure to empty the ashes into the hearth.

But at the suddenslamof the library door, the box drops from my startled hands and bowls through the pile of still-shifting porcelain shards. The spell collapses, and broken pieces fall apart onto the carpet, atop a layer of ash.

“Aunt!” I cry.

Aunt Lenore stands in the doorway, a long-stemmed pipe between her fingers, her purse dangling from her wrist and her eyes flinty. Her gown is black, as all her clothes have been since Uncle Artie’s death two years ago.

Our gazes connect, and my bones turn to ice. She towers over me like a nightmare come to life. Even for a grown-up, she’s very tall.

“You rat,” Aunt Lenore snarls.

I jump to my feet and dart behind the sofa, terror pressing against my lungs and making it difficult to breathe.

“Is that my mother’s vase?” Aunt Lenore says, advancing slowly. There’s nowhere for me to run, not with her blocking the way to the door. “And is that one of my poor dead husband’s spellbooks? Which Iexplicitlyforbid you from touching?”

“I—I can explain! It was an accident!”

“Didn’t learn your lesson the last time, did you?” Aunt Lenore brandishes her pipe. She picked up the habit after Uncle Artie’s death, and now I rarely see her without one of the vile things lit between her lips. The smoke stings my eyes and makes me cough. “You don’t deserve magic, girl. Your soul is too corrupt. Your heart is too vile.”

“It is not!” I shout. “I want magic, Aunt. I have a right to it, same as anyone!”

The spool of thread is still clutched in my hand. Hurriedly I pull off a length.

Aunt Lenore hisses, “No, you don’t!”

She stabs her pipe at me, the hot bowl burning into the soft skin of my throat. Pain explodes up my neck, and I choke on the bitter scent of tobacco and burned flesh. With a scream, I throw myself sideways, into a bookshelf. Books crash to the floor, and I stumble, trying to see the door through the jagged lights bursting in my vision.

“Murdering little brat!” Aunt Lenore kicks at me, and I drop and curl up with a cry. The whole house must hear us by now, the staff stiffening over their chores, eyes wide and lips tight. But none will come to help me. They’ve seen what happens when they try.

“You deserve worse than this,” Aunt Lenore says, pausing to catch her breath. “You took the love of my life from me!”

“I loved Uncle Artie too,” I sob.

“Hussy! How dare you say his name?”

She raises the pipe again, this time to drive it into my cheek, but I’m too quick. I scrabble upright and make for the door, and in my hands is the Weave I finally managed to tie.

I channel into the thread as I run out of the library, then turn and kick the door shut. The spellknot in my hands flares white hot, and then the door vanishes entirely.

It’s only an illusion spell. In minutes Aunt Lenore will find the doorknob and escape; I have to make use of what little time I have.

Fighting back always makes Aunt Lenore twice as angry, and I’ve never dared use magic against her before. I don’t want to find out what the consequences of such naughtiness would be.

I limp down the dark hallway, gasping for breath. Aunt Lenore’s sharp kicks found too many bruises from my last punishment, and now they throb anew. I have to stop every few steps to let out a sob and work up the strength to go on. The burn on my neck screams.

The beating on the library walls sounds like the knock of a corpse come back to life, trying to escape its coffin. How long until Aunt Lenore finds the knob?

In my panic, I turn left at the end of the hallway instead of right toward the stairs and find myself trapped at a dead end. There’s nothing here but wood-paneled walls.

Then comes a crash down the corridor and Aunt Lenore’s voice calling out, “You’ll pay for that trick dearly, little witch!”