Page 30 of The Moorwitch

I press my lips together, pressure building in my temples. So she not only is a pariah in her own village, she has no peers of her own class to confide in and learn from. The poor child’s completely isolated.

“Sounds lonely,” I say at last.

“Aye,” she sighs. “That’s why I was so excited when you showed up. We almost never get visitors. Except for the ghost, of course.”

I glance down at her. “Er ... ghost?”

“You’ll probably catch a glimpse of her at night, if you keep your eyes sharp. All white and glowy like a ... well, like a ghost. Conrad thinks I’m mad as a loon, but I’ve seen her more than once, and I know what I saw.”

Once again my thoughts stray to the pale figure from last night. And once again, I remind myself it was only a wisp of fog. “Do you have chats with this ghost?”

“No, I don’t think she can speak,” says Sylvie. “She just stares at me for a bit, then disappears. I think she might be the ghost of my mum, or Conrad’s.”

“Perhaps she is.” I give her shoulder a consoling squeeze. “At any rate, I’ll be sure to keep my eyes sharp.”

When we near Ravensgate, Captain bounds up to us, barking, and draws Sylvie into a game of chase. They run in great loops about the drive.

I stand uncertainly, eager to give Mr. Conrad North, laird of Ravensgate, a piece of my mind but unsure where to start looking for him, when I hear a sudden cry of pain from the stable.

Chapter Ten

My hand moving to my threadkit, I hurry to the half-open door, the scent of hay and livestock wafting out. Stepping around the door, bracing for anything, I peer into the dimly lit interior. My eyes scan the piled hay and horses in their stalls, seeking the person in pain.

Another cry draws my eye to the corner to my left, where in an open stall, Conrad North is crouched over a prone sheep, his kilt hiked over his knees. His shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms, and he’s got one hand shoved up the sheep’s backside.

For a moment, I am struck dumb. And so, it seems, is the laird. He gapes at me, his dark brows knitted together in surprise.

Then the sheep lying on the straw before him gives another plaintive bleat, and I realize it is the animal, not the man, in distress.

“Easy, Thistle. It’s just an uninvited guest.” Mr. North withdraws his hand, encased in a leather glove, from the sheep’s interior. His eyes remain fixed upon me, narrow with suspicion. “Miss Pryor. You have come back so soon. Did the villagers drive you out, then? Did you knock any locals off their horses, or get caught snooping through their private effects?”

“I found Sylvie on the road,” I say, unable to tear my eyes from the grisly scene before me. “She was being taunted by some children.”

He inhales, his lips tight. In the dim light of the stable, his eyes are less amber and more obsidian, mirror dark. He turns his eyes back to the sheep, which is writhing its legs in distress, and no wonder. Mr. Northhas apparently been rummaging about inside it as if searching for loose coins.

“The Cotter and McLure whelps,” he growls. “They’re wee beasts, but Sylvie knows better than to take stock in the words of bullies.”

“Are you sure of that?” I look out at the girl, now rolling in the drive with Captain licking her face, her squeals of laughter piercing the air. “Her tears seemed evidence to the contrary.”

Mr. North’s ungloved hand tightens at his side. “She shouldn’t be going to town at all. Swing that door open, will you? I need more light in here.”

I push the stable’s second door wide, letting in a broad beam of light. It illuminates the pitiful creature under Mr. North’s hand. He’s probing at it again, causing the thing to struggle. With his other hand, he tries to hold the ewe still, but is clearly failing.

“Whatareyou doing to that poor thing?” I demand.

His reply is strained with both effort and pique. “Well, I’m not torturing it or sacrificing it to my dark gods, or whatever the hell your tone implies youthinkI’m doing.”

“Language, sir!” I gasp.

He rolls his eyes. “The sheep’s birthing, but the lamb is breech. Come closer—I need your hands.”

“My ...” I look down at my palms, then up at him. “Mr. North, I am not trained to—”

“I dinnae give a damn about your training, Miss Pryor,” he retorts irritably. “I need a pair of hands, and Mr. MacDougal’s caught up in the south pastures for some time. So yours will have to do, if you can stand to get a wee bit of dirt under your pretty nails. Trust me, you’re not my first choice of help either.”

Uncertainly, I step nearer. “Does she have no friends her own age?”

Mr. North seems to choke. “What, Thistle?”