Page 31 of The Moorwitch
“Sylvie.Surely she doesn’t always stay here, with a housekeeper and a—” I bite my tongue before the wordsprejudiced bastardslips out.
But he gives me a thunderous look that makes me think he knew precisely what I was going to say. “I hardly think we require the input of a stranger in our affairs. Now, roll up your sleeves—if you can, with all that embroidery work—and kneel there by Thistle’s head. She won’t bite.” He pauses, then adds, “Nay, that’s a lie. She may bite.”
So much for not wanting the input of a stranger in his affairs. I touch my sleeve and grimace. “Don’t you have ... people, for this sort of thing? Aren’t you a laird?”
He gives an exasperated growl. “I believe we’ve been over the part where I explained Mr. MacDougal is occupied. And I’d be a poor sort of laird if I could not tend my own livestock when necessary. Now, will you help me, or will you stand by and let poor Thistle knock herself senseless while I help her deliver her lamb?”
Bracing myself, I roll my sleeves and kneel by the sheep. She bleats pitifully, and my heart beats in sympathy. But my total inexperience with this sort of thing coupled with my lifelong unease around animals leaves me feeling ill.
“Just soothe her,” Mr. North says, taking stock of my queasy expression. “And Fates, try not to faint. ’Tis just a lambing. Though admittedly, Thistle, old girl, your bairn’s a big, stubborn thing, just like her ma. Ach! I can see a wee hoof, now, there’s a smart lass! Hold her still, Miss Pryor.”
Wincing, I cling to the ewe’s woolly neck while the laird inspects the situation unfolding at Thistle’s other end.
“Please don’t bite me,” I whisper to the creature. “You’re, er, doing very well. I assume.”
Even in school, healing had never been my preferred area of study, particularly any topic involving as many bodily fluids as childbirth.
After a few minutes, I say, “I do know a spell—”
“Nay,” Mr. North grunts. “I’ve birthed hundreds of lambs with no other help but nature’s own. You will not interfere with your tricks.”
“My—” I clench my teeth, my neck hot. “I could take away all the poor creature’s pain! You’d deny her that relief?”
“This isn’t Thistle’s first time. The old girl can hold her own. Now hush and pass me that jar of lubricant.”
I press my lips together, glaring at him as I pass him the jar. The blasted Scotsman summarily ignores me as he smears the jellylike substance inside the sheep’s birth canal. I avert my gaze, the whole sticky process leaving me even more nauseated.
“It’s all well, Thistle,” Mr. North murmurs. “Ignore the uppity city lass. She does not understand us ignorant country folk.”
“Ignorance! That’s just my point.” I jump on my chance to continue the conversation I’d come for in the first place. “A girl Sylvie’s age should at least have a governess. What of her education?”
He scowls. “I cannae see how that’s any of your business.”
“Has Sylvie been tested for magic?”
“Eh?” he splutters.
“It’s the law, you know,” I say coolly. In my lap, Thistle gives another soft bleat, and I smooth the wool between her ears while still glowering at the laird. It’s not the poor ewe’s fault her master is such a beast. “I presume you still fall under the queen’s law? All children are to be tested for Weaving abilities by the time they’re six.”
“Aye.” Lowering himself to one bared knee, he gently loops a light rope about the tiny hoof emerging from the sheep’s far end. As he works, his dark hair dangles about his face, damp with sweat. “She was tested years ago, by a Weaver in the village. Naught came of it. Not that I find it any ofyourconcern. You seem to meddle worse than you snoop. Might you have any more vices a man ought to beware?”
“I have ten.”
He blinks. “I beg your pardon?”
Impatiently, I explain, “In school, my third-year teacher listed all our faults for us in order that we might pray the Fates would change them into virtues. Most girls were given four or five, but I was given ten. But that isnotthe topic at hand, sir. About Sylvie—”
“Ten!” He makes a guttural sound in his throat, as if choking down a curse—or perhaps a laugh. Then I’m forced to turn my attention awayas Thistle bleats and strains again, and Mr. North gently pulls on the rope about the lamb’s little hoof, easing it out another few inches. I hold fast to her neck all the while, trying to calm her panicked thrashing.
When she relaxes again, Mr. North sits back and brushes back his hair with his arm. “One day, Miss Pryor, you shall have to list all ten of your faults for me, so that I might guard myself against your wicked ways.”
I give an outraged laugh. “Yes, and afterward we might listyours. I have a few ideas where we could start.”
“Wasimpertinenceon your list, by any chance?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, it was number four.”
Is that a hint of mirth in his dark gaze? If so, it only lasts a moment, so brief I might have imagined it. Feeling Thistle shudder, I bend over her and murmur soothing nonsense into her ear, forcing down the nausea in my belly as ropy, wet substances swing from her bucking hindquarters. I thank the Fates I ended up in a Moirene school, and not an Edgithan one. The Order of St. Edgitha of the Needle are almost invariably trained to be healers and midwives. I do not think I would have fared well in such a field.