Page 33 of The Moorwitch

I bite my tongue, fingers twitching.

A moment later, the lamb draws a shuddering breath, and Thistle nuzzles its small head.

“Ah!” Sylvie cries. “You did it, Connie!”

“Aye, with some help.” Mr. North glances at me as he pulls off his glove. “Come, Miss Pryor. Let ma and bairn get to know one another. Our job is done.”

Sylvie flings her arms wide. “I shall call her—”

“Him,” corrects her brother.

“I shall call him ...Apollo!”

“A fine name,” Mr. North says.

“I ... I just birthed a lamb,” I whisper.

“Well.” He raises an eyebrow. “You helped. Sort of. You dinnae pass out, at any rate, and for a moment there I did have my doubts ...” He tosses a dirty cloth at me. “Now do clean yourself up. You’re absolutely filthy.”

I look down at my dirty skirts and muddy hands while he chuckles to himself.

Honestly, thegallof the man!

Mr. North shuts the stall door, and we lean over it, watching the ewe and lamb grow acquainted. Thistle licks her babe clean, and soon little Apollo is hobbling about on his spindly legs, searching for the teat.

“I am not depriving her of an education,” Mr. North says at last. “I have taught her as best I can.”

In the heady afterglow of the lamb’s birth, it takes me a moment to remember the thread of our conversation. I lift my eyes to his and see him watching the lamb. A thin seam of worry is stitched vertically between his brows, making him seem older and wearier than I’d first taken him for. His sweat-damp hair clings to the back of his neck and temples, but over his forehead, it sticks upward where he’d pushed at it with his forearm. I feel the sudden, irrational urge to smooth it back. I suppress the mad notion with a flex of my hand, turning my eyes back on the lamb.

I think of Mr. North’s rigid prejudice and unyielding mistrust of my magic. Ofme. He would not even let me use my threads to comfort a distressed animal. My pride balks at the thought of taking another moment’s hospitality from the likes of such a disagreeable man.

But then I think of Sylvie surrounded by those horrid children.

I think of myself, deprived of magic and education as a girl, desperate to be free of the one person who was supposed to protect and nurture me.

“I would be willing to instruct Sylvie,” I say slowly, “in exchange for room and board for the duration of my stay in Blackswire.”

Sylvie crows, flinging herself around her brother in a fierce hug, then skipping away out the door. “It’s settled then! I must go tell Mrs. MacDougal!”

She’s gone in moments, and when I turn back around, Mr. North is facing me squarely, one arm propped on the stall door. He leans very near, so that I can smell the hay stuck to the coarse wool of his jacket. His dark amber eyes bore into mine.

“You can stay,” he says softly. “It may be a governess will do Sylvie some good. And you are only temporary, after all, as you await your employer’s arrival. But mark me, I am bringing you on as a teacher,nota Weaver. If I even suspect that you’ve channeled in my house or breathed a word of magic instruction to my sister, I will toss you out on your pretty arse.”

I suck in a breath of indignation, my cheeks flushing with heat. “Language, my lord.” If he were one of my pupils, I’d take him by the ear for a scolding.

“As I told you.” He pulls back, and the air around me cools. “I’m no noble. Only a country landowner, and a guardian who takes his duties very seriously. My concern has always been, and will always be, that child’s safety.”

“I assure you,” I reply icily, “that her safety, andanychild’s safety, is of paramount importance to me too.”

“Then you agree to my terms?” He sticks out his hand. The same one that a short time ago was shoved inside a sheep’s innards. Gloved, but still.

After a moment’s hesitation, I take it. His grip is warm and firm, engulfing mine against a palm as calloused as any farmhand’s. He holds my hand for a few heartbeats, his eyes studying my face, as if searching for any sign of deception. Insensibly, I am put in mind of Lachlan’s cold, ageless hands, and the other bargain I struck years ago.

But this does not feel the same. I am not a frightened little girl, but a woman of resolute mind, with magic in my fingertips. I will endure this unsufferable laird for as long as it takes to find the way intoElfhame. Then I will bring Lachlan his branch and bid Conrad North farewell for all time.

And then, at last, I will finally be free to go home to my classroom, where I belong.

Mrs. MacDougal, her lips pursed in disapproval, helps me settle back into the guest room where I’d spent the previous night. I can feel her suspicion rolling off her like an icy wind and do my best to be cheerful and helpful. It does not thaw her regard of me.