Page 23 of The Moorwitch

Lachlan will remain “ill” for several days or even weeks, of course, until I’ve found Elfhame and returned with his prize.

Or until I turn twenty-one and feel the magic dim from my bones for good.

“And how long have you worked for this thread merchant?” asks Mr. North.

“Not long, since I left my teaching position at the Perkins Charity School in Westminster.”

“You were a teacher of magic.” His eyes lock on mine as he speaks, and he gently blows upon his wolf to clear away the fresh shavings. They glitter in the air, a few specks clinging to his lower lip. He brushes them away with a slow swipe of his thumb, not once taking his eyes from mine. “I’d have thought you of some higher position, judging by those wards. Did you sew them yourself?”

His glance has settled on my sleeves. I pull at them self-consciously, surprised he noticed the embroidery winding up to myelbows. Most people don’t; the thread matches the fabric and the stitches are tiny. The patterns are sewn all over my clothes, around the hems and neckline, tucked into the seams, worked into my stockings and petticoat. There is even a little spell woven into the lining of my bonnet, which is still drying by the hearth in the kitchen. I sewed them in the jolting, crowded coach I rode here in, with much silent cursing at the fae who’d been pressed against me, hindering my elbow movement.

The spells are wards, indeed; most of them repel physical attacks, some discourage enmity. There are also some illusion charms to make me appear slightly taller and stronger. The difference is so subtle no one would notice unless they were listening and watching very carefully. But since I’ve woven the same embroidery into pretty much all my clothing, they’d never have a chance to tell the difference. Even the ragged gown I’d worn before Lachlan replaced my wardrobe had been stiff with protective charms. I began to sew them not long after I left my aunt’s home, replacing them every few weeks when they wore away, until the crafting of them became an instinct, something I performed almost without thinking. There has been more than one occasion in which my wards came in handy, stinging a man’s wandering hand, discouraging bands of pickpockets who shadowed me down the darker alleys. Teaching in one of London’s poorest districts has its perils, and I suppose after all these years, I am still my aunt’s niece.

“You have experience with magic, sir?” I ask, my tone as sharp as the needle hidden in the seam of my sleeve. “From what Mrs. MacDougal told me, I’d got the impression you were not keen on the craft.”

His face darkens. “Do you think me a simple country laird? And that because I live a remote and solitary life, Miss Pryor, I must be ignorant as well?”

“Forgive me if I implied anything of the sort,” I reply, taken aback by the heat in his voice. I’d not meant to offend so deeply, but clearly, Itouched some hidden nerve. “I saw you’ve some Weavers in your family tree. There was a portrait—”

“Ach, if I knew who half the people in those portraits were, or whether they were even related to me, I should count myself the most educated man in Scotland.” He waves his hand, dismissing the topic. “So tell me, in what sort of Weaving does a charity school instruct its pupils? No great magic, I should think. Do you specialize in household spells, adept at scouring pots and dusting cobwebs away?”

I flick my hair back, outraged by his patronizing tone. “I taught magic, yes, and arithmetic and reading and history and French, if you must know. Though considering the state of your manor, sir, I think you might benefit from a fewhousehold spells.”

He scrapes the edge of his knife over the wooden wolf’s bristling hackles. “Ach. Magic is just a lazy shortcut out of honest, hard work.”

I draw a sharp, angry breath. What would he say, I wonder, if I demonstrated just how muchhonest, hard workit would take me to embroider a hex on his pillowcase? Perhaps something to make him itch all through the night, or to wake with his hair twisted into a thousand impossible knots?Lazy shortcut, indeed! I have never been so thoroughly offended in so short a time by so arrogant a man.

“I do not know what sort of Weavers you have out here in your backwater country,” I reply, my voice cool and my temper hot, a perilous combination, “but in London, whereIcome from, it is St. Edgitha’s healers the folk call for when their children fall ill. It is the Telarii they send to defend our coast against the French. It is the Weavers of the Moirai, my sisters and brothers, to whom they entrust their education. It is magic, woven largely by women’s hands, that has knit together the ground beneath your feet, oh country laird. Or are you so ensconced in your remoteness and solitude that you forget there is a world beyond your moors?”

He returns my gaze with a glower of his own. He has a tiger’s amber eyes; they remind me of the bright illustrations in a book of poetry I had loved as a girl.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright ... In what distant deeps or skies, burnt the fire of thine eyes?

I shake the words away, unsettled and unsure why.

“Tell me, Miss Pryor,” he says in a low, almost purring tone, “are all the charity-school teachers in London as proud as you?”

“If they are not, they should be. It ishonest,hardwork, and I have nothing to be ashamed of. I will not apologize for my position, my reputation, or my craft, not even to a laird sitting pretty in his backwater castle.”

His lips quirk with wry amusement. The expression erases some of the sternness from his face and reveals a sly dimple in his left cheek.

For a moment I forget what we are arguing about. That wicked little smirk puts a hitch in my breath and insensibly recalls an image to my mind—an illustration from one of my childhood storybooks, of the Greek hero Jason standing at the prow of theArgo, as cocky and handsome as an artist’s pen could summon.

No. Oh, no, no, no. I willnotoverlook his rudeness for the sake of one Fatesdamned dimple.

“I thank you for your night’s hospitality,” I add in a strained tone, “but I plan to move on to other lodging in the morning.”

“And I thank you for carrying me home,” he returns with a short, mocking nod. “And I extend to you all the comforts my ‘backwater castle’ can offer for the night. But I must request, in the strictest terms, that you refrain from exercising yourcraftwhile you are on my property.”

“Of course. I would not dream of burdening you with my gifts. Shall I give you my threadkit to lock away until morning? Do you wish me to strip off every becharmed article of clothing I am currently wearing and toss them in your fireplace?”

He gives me a startled glance, his eyes flicking to the embroidery on my nightgown’s bodice and lingering a fair moment longer than necessary. My cheeks grow hot as I suddenly recall I am wearing littleelse and bringing his attention to that fact was perhaps a foolish thing to do. I do not know this man, nor his notions of honor. Perhaps he has none.

I run my hand over my hip, as if to smooth the gown, but really slipping a finger into a secret pocket where there is a skein of thread. If I need it, I could Weave a stunning spell in a trice, something far more potent than the charms worked into my nightgown. The embroidered wards curl up the seams on my ribs and meet just over my breasts in a complex knot that is meant to discourage unwanted attention and wandering eyes.

Curiously, they seem to have little effect on Mr. North.

Then he curses and looks down at his thumb, where his carving knife has slipped and drawn blood.