Page 37 of The Moorwitch

“I know you think me a monster,” he says.

“I don’t.” I did, once, but now ...

“I have done monstrous things.”

Briefly, I shut my eyes and see my aunt, scrabbling about senselessly in the padded room where I last saw her.

But it was I who summoned him. It was I who asked him to set me free.

“So have I,” I whisper.

“Was I right about you, then?” he murmurs. “Did I put my trust in the right Weaver?”

“You did,” I reply breathlessly. The words surprise me, bubbling out of some hidden well of confidence I was not sure existed.

Lachlan tilts his head, a sad smile playing on his lips as he releases my hand. I withdraw it, shaking a little, bewildered at the flutter of wings in my belly.

“Hm.” He gives me a thorough look over that leaves me blushing yet again. “I must admit, when I saw the state of you in that wretched boarding room, I had my doubts.”

A knot of desperation sticks in my throat, as I feel the sudden, bewildering need to prove myself to this faerie, the same way I needed to prove myself to Mother Bridgid. My magic is fading, but it is notgone. I still have my mind and its language of patterns. I have my twelve years of grueling education and teaching experience. I am not a lost cause.

“I will bring you that branch,” I say. “You will return home, and Lorellan’s fate will not be yours.”

I try not to let myself pity him, nor any of his kind. I remember what he is, what he’s asked of me, and what I will become if I do not carry out his bidding.

And yet ... now I understand him better, in a way. He is desperate too, willing to go to any length to save his people.

For the past twelve years, I have viewed him as a shadowy menace lurking in the shadows of my youth, the monster I summoned from the dark and set loose upon the world. But he isn’t a monster, really. He is perhaps more human than I gave him credit for, capable of fear, loss, and desperation.

Perhaps he and I are more alike than we are different.

“I will do it, Lachlan,” I say again, more firmly.

He nods, seemingly to himself, and walks over to the Telarian tapestry, his back to me, his frame rigid as he gazes at the mesmerizing pattern of threads.

“Find the way into Elfhame, Rose,” he murmurs after a long, cool moment. “You must. For both our sakes.”

Chapter Twelve

At breakfast the next morning, Sylvie North beams at me over her oats and milk. Notably absent is her brother, who has ostensibly set off to meet with some crofters in Blackswire to discuss spring plantings. I am a little surprised he is not determined to perch over Sylvie and me all morning, like a dark crow waiting to swoop down and peck my hands for so much as touching a spool of thread.

I soon find out my fears were not far off, however, when Mrs. MacDougal announces she will spend the day dusting the library, where it just so happens I planned to hold Sylvie’s lessons.

So the housekeeper is to be Mr. North’s spy.

“What should we do first?” Sylvie asks, curling up into a great armchair by the hearth. Mr. MacDougal lights a fire before stamping off to tend his sheep. The licking orange flames drive back the gloom of yet another rainy morning. Droplets run in pretty patterns down the arched windows, tracing down the glass like pale ribbons.

I take out a small list I wrote out last night to distract myself from thinking of Lachlan and Lorellan and the other faeries. The weight of their plight is an added pressure, entirely reframing my understanding of my mission here. Their lives apparently depend onmeopening their way home. I can still feel the dampness of Lachlan’s tear on my thumb.I can still see the glistening, desperate hope in his eyes. How startlingly human he revealed himself to be.

And here is Sylvie North, with her large, similarly hopeful gaze fastened upon me, depending on me as well.

“I need some idea of how far you are into each subject,” I say, running a finger down my list. “We’ll do some informal exams on history, science, literature, arithmetic, geography ...”

Sylvie’s eyes glass over, the eager smile on her face turning to a grimace of dread. My finger pauses on the list, tapping thoughtfully.

“Let’s start with geography,” I say. “Does your brother have any atlases in here?”

We search the shelves, moving under the watchful gaze of Mrs. MacDougal, who dusts each book one by one as assiduously as if she were about to hand them to Queen Victoria herself.