Page 26 of The Moorwitch

“Numpty!”

“Harpy.”

Sylvie grins and digs her elbow into her brother’s side, and he yelps and falls backward off his chair, as if mortally wounded. Then he lets out a real cry of pain when his injured leg strikes the table.

“Honestly!” Mrs. MacDougal throws up her hands. “Barbarians! The lot of you!”

When I slip out of Mr. North’s crumbling manor ten minutes later, the moor is cast in gray fog aglow with the afterlight of dawn. It is cold enough to freeze the blood in my veins. Even though Mrs. MacDougal’shot breakfast and tea warms my belly, for half a moment, I regret leaving the comfortable kitchen for this frigid air. Saying farewell to Sylvie’s disappointed face was even more difficult. The girl reminds me painfully of my students.

But thinking of my class reminds me that I have a mission to do, and the sooner it’s over and done, the sooner I can go home. Once I’m far enough away from the manor that Mr. North cannot spy upon me, I sew a few warming knots into my shawl. Though as I channel into them, I almost wish hewouldglimpse me through the austere windows of his library lair. It warms me almost as much as my magic, imagining him chafing at this act of defiance.

Over the moors, eerie sounds creep and prowl: low groans that could just as well be waking ogres as wind through trees; sudden, startled crashes in the bracken by small animals; chuffs in the distance that may be cattle or horses or the disapproving grumbles of the Fates themselves for all I can tell. I follow the drive to the road, then cut east, over the moors and out of sight of the manor.

Climb the highest northern hill,were Lachlan’s instructions.Then spy a southern bluff with three rocks like your craggy Fates jutting from its face. The gate lies halfway betwixt these and is like to be guarded, so tread with caution, little witch.

Toren’s Rise is the highest hill in the area, according to the map I stole from Mr. North’s study, and it lies north of the manor, a few hours’ walk.

Before long, the wildness of this place seeps through my skin and pricks my bones, and I find myself hurrying, breathing faster, as the sun rises and the fog melts, revealing a land far stranger and more beautiful than I could have imagined.

The moors here are jagged and broken by rock, great crags leaning out of the moss and casting long purple shadows over the bristling heather. Winds from every corner meet here to gambol, tussle, and court, so the land seems alive with great invisible beasts. My bonnet is tossed from my head, and my skirts wrap around my legs and flutterbehind me. Like a small ship I am driven by those winds, pulled and pushed along until I am breathless.

When I finally reach Toren’s Rise—unmistakable for its height, which soon sets my calves to complaining—the sun is three handsbreadths in the sky. My warming knots have turned to ash, but between the sunlight and the exercise, I don’t need them anymore.

A steep rise blanketed in heather takes me to the peak, where the land suddenly drops away in a craggy bluff. Looking down into a deep, narrow ravine, I reel a bit at the height. I am breathing hard, my lungs burning and legs aching, but every inch of me is aflame and alert. The wind has awoken something wild in me, and before I can stop myself, I open wide and drink in the energy of this place.

It rushes in, a hungry tide. I let my head fall back and draw it into my core, let it search me out. I hold it as long as I can before my heartbeats begin to strike like a knife driving in and out, in and out. Then, with a sob of pain, I channel the magic into an illusion knot strung between my hands.

A flock of blackbirds burst from the threads, airy and indistinct, ravens of smoke and shadow. They screech silence and beat no wind from their diaphanous wings. Hundreds of them pour from me, a great black cloud, and in moments they dissipate into the wind.

Letting out a long breath, I sink to my knees and press my hands to my chest, ashes trickling through my palms.

That was foolish and purposeless, and now I’ve weakened myself. It will take longer to trek through the moors, longer to find the gate, longer to—

Shutting my eyes against the panic which threatens to swallow me whole, I try to still my heart.

Chin up, Rose,I tell myself.No more getting carried away. Remember why you are here. Remember what you stand to lose. Remember what you stand to gain.

Magic without pain. No one and nothing to fear, ever again. A purposeful place in the world, uncontestable and necessary. I think ofmy students, with their wide, desperate eyes, and I remember what it felt like to be one of them. Alone, afraid, so very small.

I set my eyes on the distant bluffs. The land to the south is forested, its trees old; I can tell even from this height the trunks there are vast and ancient, the crowns high and proud. Those trees have stood for centuries and no doubt hide centuries of secrets.

But I am here to discover only one.

A scramble down the back of the bluff takes me upon a little southbound path, perhaps no more than a deer trail, but it affords easier passage through the heather and the thicker undergrowth which crops up as I pass into the wood. Among the trees, the wind grows thinner. Where it rioted over the open moors like a herd of wild horses, here it slinks, fox-like, in and out of shadows.

I know better than to strike into unknown forest without some path out again, so I remove a spool of sturdy red wool from my threadkit and tie a length to a branch. I let it unwind as I walk, my finger stuck through the center, taking care not to let it pull taut and snap the line.

Go to the lowest point of land,Lachlan had told me.You will know the gate when you see it.

So I follow every downward slope, sliding and slipping over leaves and snow, soon breathing hard, my heart racing now not only with exertion, but with the thrill of closing in on my destination.

The gate is near; I canfeelit, as the ancient trees bend and bow overhead, their great limbs, even in winter, heavily draped in pale moss. I leap from rock to rock over a half-frozen burn and startle three stags in a wide clearing. Heart skipping a beat, I stumble to a halt and watch them toss their antlers as they bound away, springing over melting snows. In moments they’ve vanished into the wood. For all the silence of their steps, they may as well have evaporated.

Halfway between Toren’s Rise and the Three Fates Bluff, as I’ve inwardly named the craggy cliffs to the south, I slow and catch my breath, walking measuredly through the silent trees and watching for any sign of the gate to Elfhame.

This part of the forest, I sense in my bones, is older than the rest. Perhaps this is the most remote and untouched strip of land in all of Britain. The trees are giants, grandfathers and grandmothers wizened with moss. As I walk among them, they groan and creak as if fully aware of their age, and my coming here has woken them from centuries of slumber. Beneath the crisp scent of the snow, I breathe in the earthy bouquet of wet soil and rotting oak.

Are they here, the fae of the stories? Lachlan’s long-lost kin? Are they watching me circle their doorstep, a foolish girl searching out powers she has no business provoking? Or have they fully withdrawn into their own strange world?