Page 4 of The Moorwitch

Someone—Uncle Artie?—sealed the book with a complex ward knot, threads bound neatly around the cover. The pattern is mesmerizing, an intricate design that draws my mind in and turns it inside out. It’s the sort of knot that seems to have no beginning or end.

But for as long as I can remember, patterns have whispered to me. Whether it’s a spellknot illustrated on a page, or the veins on the back of a leaf, or the way the flour dances in the sieve when Cook tosses it, patternsmake sense. They tell me their secrets as if theywantto be understood.

This one is no different. I stare hard at the knot on the forbidden spellbook, mapping the lines, tracing them with invisible fingers, spiraling round and round until ...

There!

I find the secret string tucked beneath the pattern which unravels the Weave all at once. The protective shielding vanishes.

I heave open the book as Aunt Lenore rips another bar from the door.

The pages are yellow and the script so faded I can barely make it out. The book has to be hundreds of years old. Uncle Artie left no notes in these margins; I guess he never had need for such forbidden magic.

Despite Aunt Lenore’s attempts to wall me off from all knowledge of magic, I know a little about the laws governing Weavers. Some spells can get you thrown in jail. Others can get your hands crushed beneath rocks.

But many of the spells inthisbook would result in a swift execution.

I hesitate, shivering at the gruesome images on the pages. I should not be holding this. I shouldn’t even know this sort of magic exists. Guilt twists like a snake in my belly.

But then another crash in the hallway startles me. How many bars are left over the door? Four? Five? I have only minutes to find a way to save myself. There’s no time to search the other books. Fear overcomes guilt. I continue turning pages.

I find no secret to transporting myself to some far-off haven. Instead, there are spells to stop the heart, to choke the lungs, to turn intestines into snakes. The images make me shudder, and my courage slips. I can’t do any of these, not even to my aunt. No wonder my uncle warded this book shut.

But then I find one that isn’t quite so gruesome:A Spell to Summon Immortal Protection.

That sounds promising.

I look up as the door begins to shudder. Aunt Lenore’s almost got it open.

Heart jumping, I scan the instructions for the spell, skipping the prologue aboutthe price of certain magicks, searching instead for the important parts about which threads should go where.

It’s a complicated Weave, no simple cat’s cradle. I glance around and spot Uncle Artie’s pegboard hanging on the wall. Wooden, round, with two dozen pegs set around its perimeter, it is meant for Weaving more complex spells.

I take it down and set to work.

The thread slips in my clammy hands, a short piece breaking off. I use it to tie back my brown waves of hair, which are now damp with sweat. Across the room, the door shudders as the boards nailed over it rip with splinters and cracks.

I Weave as quickly as my fingers can move. Will this spell even work? Am I strong enough to channel the magic to fill it? What sort of immortal protection will it summon?

Despite my many unanswered prayers in the past, I hope for the Fates, the blessed Moirai: Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos. Spinners of life and determiners of death, who watch all humanity through their great looms.

“Help me,” I whisper. “Please, send an angel, send a demon, I don’t care. Please just save me!”

In moments, the Weave is done. The pattern looks like a winding spiral, an illusion that seems to stretch infinitely inward. I stare at it until the sound of a key in the door shakes me into motion. She must have torn down all the boards.

My time is up.

Planting my hand on the threads, I let out a long breath and then channel.

This time, I am not cautious.

I drain energy from the plants in the sitting room, sensing them wither and brown. I wrench it from the ivy, from the vegetables in the larder, from the moss growing in the cracks of the walls. In my desperation, I nearly pull it from Leo, Aunt Lenore’s grumpy old cat, but with a shiver I pass him over. That is dark magic I will not draw upon, not even to save my own life.

Please be enough, please be enough, please—!

I gasp as the pattern of threads flares white, so bright I am forced to look away. The room fills with a howling wind that pushes books off the walls and sends Uncle Artie’s portrait crashing to the floor. I cry out and duck behind the desk, tasting ashes on my lips as the thread crumbles and is swept away by the unearthly gale.

Then, suddenly, all falls still.