Page 25 of The Moorwitch

I touch my fingertips to the symbol. Perhaps I should have removed it, but I haven’t had the heart. I am still technically a Moirene sister, and wearing the symbol of my order makes me believe I will one day return to them.

“Miss Pryor is fine. And yes, I suppose I am off to the village.”

Sylvie pouts. “But you’ve only just got here.”

“Miss Pryor did not come all this way to seeus,” the housekeeper reminds her.

Her husband comes in from outside, bringing a draft of cold air with him. In heavy work boots he shuffles over and sits, muttering, “No eggs today, Mrs. MacDougal. That damn racket has scared them right back up into the chickens. I’ve a mind to puncture the bag when the lad’s next away.”

Just then, the bagpipes cut off, and we all release relieved sighs. Then the kitchen door opens again, and Conrad North limps in, clutching an enormous set of highland pipes, ruddy cheeked from the cold. The laird’s sgian-dubh is tucked into his belt, and his black hair is untidily ruffled, making him a human counterpart to the shaggy dog who trots in at his heels. A gust of wind blows in with them, ruffling the plaid kilt tied about Mr. North’s waist. I catch a glimpse of muscled bronze thigh and have to fight back the tide of heat that creeps up my neck. There aren’t many kilted men running about London, but honestly, I have spent enough time assisting in the healers’ ward to have seen my share of male flesh. I should certainlynotbe blushing at the barest flash of a disagreeable Scotsman’s thigh.

With a cough, I go back to my breakfast, once again thinking of that wretched storybook illustration of Jason, standing proud on his ship with his short windswept toga and his long muscular legs.

Fates. What iswrongwith me?

Mr. North stops short when he sees me, as though he’d forgotten I was here. Then he grumbles something unintelligible and throws himself into a chair, his pipes taking up half the table. The petrichor and earth scent of the moors rolls off him, along with the more rustic scents of stable and horse.

“Here, Sylvie,” he grunts, taking an object from his pocket and tossing it to her.

She catches it with a shout; it is the wolf I saw him carving last night, finished and really quite lovely, one paw raised and its head low as if it’s about to pounce upon a rabbit.

“Oh!” Sylvie kisses its nose. “My little Fenrir! He’s beautiful, Connie, just the best!”

“Nothing less for my shield maiden of the north.” Conrad’s words elicit a pleased flush from his sister.

He falls upon breakfast without ceremony, shoving bacon into his mouth. While he chews, he crosses his eyes at Sylvie, who giggles. If he woke in a black temper, he seems to have exhausted it through his pipes.

“So, Rose Pryor of London,” he says, his first verbal acknowledgment of my presence this morning. “You’re still here.”

I sip my tea and pointedly do not look at him. “How is your thumb, Mr. North?”

He waggles it at me; the cut has been bandaged. “Miraculously, I have survived, even without the aid of magic. How was your book?”

“Riveting. I particularly loved the part where the faerie queen woke to find her lord was actually an ass.”

A crash sounds from the washbasin, where Mrs. MacDougal has dropped a pan. She curses under her breath and, for some reason, glares at me as though it weremyfault. Sylvie is looking back and forth between me and her brother with wide eyes.

The laird leans back in his chair, tumbling his teacup in his palm as if it were red wine. His lips are slanted to one side, hinting at hisdimple. Like bronzed mirrors, his eyes seem opaque, reflecting my own face back at me. “What’s the plan today, then? More snooping?”

“Well,” I begin. “I shall walk to Blackswire this morning and ask after lodging. Perhaps there is an inn ...?”

“Nay, there’s not an inn. But there are a few families who might put you up for a time. Mr. MacDougal, ready the cart.”

“No, please,” I quickly insert. “I prefer the walk.”

Mr. North shrugs and begins draining his tea. “Suit yourself. But you cannot go hauling your bags all the way to Blackswire. Once you find a berth, send word, and Mr. MacDougal will bring your things to you.”

“She can stay here!” Sylvie chirps. “Why not, Connie? We have a million beds and—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say gently.

“Nay, ’tis not,” her brother growls behind his cup. “Miss Pryor has made up her mind. I do believe we are toobackwardandsimplefor such a highbrow, worldly soul as she.”

I give him an icy look, which he returns with equal coolness.

Sylvie pouts. “But—”

“I saidnay, and I won’t tolerate any sass, you wee wench.”