Page 32 of The Moorwitch

“Is it because she is a girl?” I ask, once the ewe is calm again.

Mr. North exhales in exasperation. “What are we talking about?”

“Your sister, and the reason you deny her a proper education. Is it because she is a girl?”

The laird’s eyes flash. His shoulders snap back, and he finally takes his gaze off the sheep to glare at me. “What do you take me for? A medieval tyrant? I care not if she be lass or lad, she’s brighter than any of those ragged wains in Blackswire!”

“And yet you forbid her from going to school!”

“She is better off at home.”

“Then at least send for a respectable governess.”

“Ach!” He turns his attention back to Thistle, easing the lamb out a bit more while muttering curses under his breath. “Spare me your sanctimonious lectures, Miss Pryor. You’re upsetting my sheep.”

Thistle’s black eyes roll as she strains again. I believe her attention is thoroughly on other matters than our conversation. “I know what it is to be deprived of proper schooling, Mr. North. If you care for your sister’s future—”

“Youcould be my governess!” cries Sylvie.

The laird and I both turn to see the girl clinging to the doorway, her cheeks wind chapped and her eyes bright.

Mr. North sighs. “Sylvie . . .”

“I know she’s only here for a short time,” Sylvie presses. “But I can learn quickly! I’ll practice my Frencheveryday, and I’ll even do extra conjugations! Maybe Miss Pryor can help me understand that awful arithmetic you can’t seem to explain properly, Connie—”

“Multiplication,” he says in a strained voice. “It’s called multiplication, and as I told you before, if you just imagine a bunch of wee boxes in your head and fill those boxes with equal amounts of apples—”

“I tried that!” she cries. “But the apples keep spilling out and rolling around in my skull!” She cocks her head to the side, eyeing Thistle. “Maybe if we tried the sheep method instead? Mr. MacDougal saystheymultiply as easy as rabbits. How do sheep and rabbits do it, then? Surely it’s not that different for humans?”

I bite back a laugh. “Hm, yes, Mr. North. Howdothe sheep and rabbits multiply?”

Mr. North gives a long, rumbling sigh as he gives another tug on the lambing rope. Thistle strains, and all conversation pauses as I console the ewe and try to hold her head still as Mr. North works on freeing the lamb trapped inside her. Sylvie hovers about with bored impatience, presumably having witnessed this particular miracle of life before.

After a moment, Thistle relaxes again with a weary chuff of air, and I give her a soft pat. The lamb is still not out, despite the poor ewe’s heroic efforts. I glance at my threadkit, thinking of at least a half dozen spells that would relieve the creature’s suffering if her bloody-mindedmaster would just overcome his bloody-minded prejudice against magic. Honestly!

“Aye,” Mr. North says gruffly. “So perhaps not all my teaching methods are successful.”

Sylvie squeals, spinning a full circle. “Is that a yes, Connie? Can Miss Pryor stay with us? Can she be my governess?Please, Connie—”

“Hush!” he interrupts. “Here it comes!”

The sheep tenses once more, then begins to jerk.

“Hold her!” Mr. North orders. “Miss Pryor, pay attention!”

My heart beating wildly, I wrap my arms around the ewe and bear down on her while Mr. North pulls at the lamb. Sylvie goes still, her hands clasped at her chest and eyes wide.

“C’mon, Thistle,” the laird murmurs. “C’mon, lassie ...there!”

All at once, the lamb slides free of its mother with a wet, sickening slurp, then lies in a still heap. I release the ewe with a gasp and stare breathlessly as Mr. North wipes away the sticky substances from the lamb’s nose and mouth. He then drags the limp little creature to Thistle’s nose, where it lies unmoving. Unbreathing.

“Is it ...?” I reach for my threadkit. Damn the man, if I can save the lamb’s life with a bit of magic, Iwilldo it.

“Let it be,” he commands.

“But—”

“Isaid, let it be.”