Page 28 of The Moorwitch
The path to the village follows the line of the tanglewood, twisted trees on one side, the open moor on the other. The trees break like a wave over the heather, gnarled branches snarling, leaves rattling in the wind. Even in early spring, they look bleak. For a while I walk alongside a flat, lazy burn, its surface stippled with undulating ripples left by light-footed insects. Every now and again, a fat fish surfaces with a slurp and sucks down a bite.
Then the path turns and there is Blackswire, a neat arrangement of stone buildings and shops, its outskirts peppered with crofts, whitewashed cob houses, and thatched roofs. The town sits in a low, flat green surrounded on three sides by forest, and on one by moorland.
A sound catches my ear—the voices of children. Perhaps one can point me to a nearby farm, where I might beg for a berth in a hayloft. But when I round the bend and see them, I find a familiar face: Sylvie North.
She’s standing in the center of a ring of five other children: three boys and two girls. They are holding hands and blocking her every attempt to escape. Sylvie is wearing one of her costumes, this time a fur cape with a feathered collar, and the black paint she used to paint whiskers on her cheeks has run from the tears streaming from her eyes.
“You smell!” a boy shouts. “Why are you wearing that dirty old rug, Batty Sylvie?”
One of the girls laughs. “My mum says you’re a child ofscandal, and the Fates don’t even Weave a thread for you.”
“Maybe that’s why your parents are both dead,” says another boy. “Punishment for their sins!”
“Is that why you wearbonesand paint your face, Batty Sylvie? Are you evil too?”
I’ve begun to Weave a hex before I’ve half had a chance to think. Then I realize inflicting a rash of warts on Sylvie’s tormentors will only make her more of a target. They still haven’t noticed me standing at the bend in the path.
Looking around, I spot three large bundles of wool tied with rope and guess these were being hauled by the children from their parents’ farms when they came across Sylvie and stopped to torment her. Furtively, I go to them and begin tying knots around the ropes, then release just a touch of magic into each one. The wool bundles begin to rise, pulled aloft by my hovering charms.
Then I back away and tuck myself behind a tree and wait.
It takes only a moment before one of the girls spots them and screams. The children gasp and cry out, one boy lunging upward to grab at a bundle, managing to get his fingers around the rope binding it. But my hovering charm pulls him up too. He is forced to let go or be borne into the sky as well. The wool bobs and drifts away, towardthe town, like small clouds. They’ll drift back to earth harmlessly in a few minutes, but of course, the children don’t know that.
“It’s her!” cries a girl. “It’s Sylvie doing that! Just look at her eyes!”
Sylvie’s eyes are wide with shock. But now she blinks and glances quickly around, eyes narrowing with suspicion, and then she spies me behind the tree. I give a small wave and a wink, and her mouth, which had been pressed into a thin line of anger and pain, now parts in a devilish grin.
“Indeed, ’tis I! Sylvie the Terrible!” she roars, and she raises her hands and makes a dramatic show of waving off the bundled wool. “I curse thee, Simon and James and Douglas! I curse thee, Mary and Felicity! May you all grow goat’s beards and lizard’s tails, and may all your food taste of frogs!”
The boys and girls scream and take off running toward the town, pale with terror, as Sylvie stomps around and howls and waves her hands. By the time they’re out of hearing, her horrible groans have turned to peals of laughter. She gives me a triumphant grin.
“Did you see them go?”
“Like sheep from a wolf,” I reply, stepping out from behind the tree.
“Aye, sheep! And my mum was a shepherdess, Connie says, so I should know how to handle them.” She wipes tears away, and I know behind her laughter, she is still raw from their bullying.
“What are you doing all the way out here? Were you on your way to school?”
“School?” she snorts. “Connie doesn’t let me go toschool. I thought maybe you’d get lost on your way to the village, so I came to help you.”
A pang of guilt wrenches at my stomach. “Well, it’s lucky for me you did. I admit, I was quite lost.”
She smiles, then suddenly grabs my hand and holds it fast. I stare at her small fingers in mine with some surprise, but do not pull away.
“What do you mean,” I ask, “when you say your brother won’t let you go to school?”
She shrugs. “They use a bit of magic there. Not that the likes of Mary and Felicity McLure can channel, but the teacher can a little, and she does a bit of spellwork. Connie’s againstallmagic.”
I bite my lip, my own inner voice admonishing me to be quiet and leave well enough alone. I’m not here to pry into the affairs of the Norths, but to save my magic and go back to my own life. Nobody’s asked me to care about one country girl’s French and arithmetic. The Weaver in me urges me to bid Sylvie farewell and be on my way.
But the teacher in me wins out.
“Where is your governess, then?” I ask. “Who is in charge of your education?”
She gives an exasperated groan. “Connie, I guess. When he has time, once or twice a week. Mrs. MacDougal teaches me a bit of cooking when the mood strikes her.”
I lift my eyes to the streaks of cloud above, searching for patience. “Is that so?”