Page 3 of The Moorwitch

“I’m not a witch,” I murmur, looking around desperately. “I’m a Weaver.”

I press myself against the wall, hoping Aunt Lenore might overlook my small form in the darkness. My fingers find fine cracks in the wainscoting.

Cracks that are too evenly spaced to be an accident. There is a pattern carved into the wood, and it seems to whisperThis way, this way!

I try to shut out the sound of Aunt Lenore’s footsteps as she stalks down the hallway, the stench of tobacco smoke searching me out. I cover my mouth and nose, afraid it will make me cough and give myself away. For a moment, terror blackens my thoughts, but I squeeze my eyes shut and force it back.

My fingers follow the cracks, which are arranged in the pattern of a simple concealing Weave. When I find the center of the pattern and press it, I hear a soft click. The wooden panel in front of me shifts inward quietly; my breath catches in my throat.

I carefully slide the panel aside to reveal a narrow tunnel. Without a second thought I dive inside, taking care to replace the panel behind me.

I crawl along until I feel the ceiling of the passage rise and find I can now stand. The space is narrow and colder than Aunt Lenore’s heart. I must be inside the very walls of the house. I swallow a sob, feeling as if they are closing in to crush me.

My progress takes me past the room where my aunt’s two ladies’ maids are ironing sheets. I hear their soft whispers through the wall and slow my pace. Would they help me or just give me away? As I raise my hand to beat on the wall and call for aid, they speak.

“Should we do something?” says the younger maid, Mary, who’s new to the house.

“Try,” replies the older one, Lillian. “You’ll only end up like your predecessor. She was blacklisted by the mistress for stepping in to protect the girl. She had to sail for the continent because no one in England would hire her.”

Tears burn in my eyes at the memory of poor Bess. She bravely stood up for me the day I got the scars on my wrist. It did neither me nor Bess any good.

With a shudder, I move on past the maids’ room, trying to remember what room comes next. No one will help me here. They’re afraid too. This whole house is soaked in fear, like water dripping down the walls. I’mdrowningin it.

Gasping for air that suddenly seems gone, I beat a hand against the wall—only to feel another panel depress beneath my palm. It opens a hidden door. I fall through with a shout, into a dark, musty space, and land on a thick carpet smelling of cedar and thread and paper.

My heart misses a beat. I know that splendid smell, even years later.

I’m in Uncle Artie’s study.

It’s been two years since I was in here. He’d been alive then and had often shared his spellbooks and thread with me in hopes I might one day channel magic too. He spoke of sending me to a Moirene school to properly learn how to Weave and to make something of myself.

Scrubbing away a tear with the heel of my hand, I turn slowly, taking in the room with all its bittersweet memories.

Nothing has changed in that time. One shuttered window looks out to the street, letting in enough light to reveal the crimson walls, bookcases, and great desk. A portrait of Uncle Artie hangs on the far wall, over a hearth. He looks kindly in it. In one hand he holds a spool of thread, and on his chest shines the medal King George gave him for distinguished service in the Telarii Guild, Weaving defensive wards against the French in the Battle of Alexandria. He used to love to tell me the story. How a person so good could end up married to someone like Aunt Lenore, I have no idea.

Moving slowly, I find the desk piled with all the spellbooks I’ve been forbidden to touch. Even knowing the trouble I’ll be in if Aunt Lenore finds me here, I can’t help but feel a rush of excitement as I place my hands on those marvelous tomes. How many wondrous spells lie within, spells that can protect me, make me stronger, set me free?

I realize then that I can no longer hear my aunt’s footsteps.

But beneath the barred door, in a sliver of sunlight, a shadow moves.

My heart stops.

“Oh, Rose. You have gone too far this time.”

I hear the sound of splintering wood as Aunt Lenore tears one of the bars off the door.

No point in caution anymore. I fling open the shutters, flooding the room with light. Aunt Lenore shrieks in response.

“Go on!” she cries. “Touch one thing, and I’ll have you hanged for thieving!”

I flip through the books desperately, eyes racing over the pages, looking for something—anything. There are books of healing magic, books of war magic, books of dangerous illegal magic, even. Some are so heavy it takes me both hands to even lift them.

When I reach for an old, battered book bound in soft leather, it flashes and stings my finger, and I pull away with a yelp. Popping my finger in my mouth, I squint at the faded title.

The Book of the Moorwitches.

I’ve heard that word before,moorwitch. They were the first Weavers in England, wild women who learned magic, some said, from the faeries. They were terribly powerful, and fought the invading Romans with spells few today could wield. Some stories even told tales of how they moved from one place to another in an instant—how useful a spell that would be!