Page 43 of The Moorwitch

“Mm. Most places are.” Dipping the brush into the paste, I glue Egypt back together, concentrating on lining the edges up as precisely as I can. I feel Mr. North’s gaze drift back to me, the weight of his eyes making my stomach tighten inexplicably. I ruin the Gulf of Aqaba and am forced to pry it apart to start over.

I remind myself of my conversation with Sylvie as we tramped back over the moor earlier today. This man has trapped her in his isolated little world, withheld her from friends, school, society. He is prejudiced against magic and intractable in his arrogance. I remind myself of all these things until a cool current of anger flows through me and settles the senseless fluttering in my belly.

“It is late,” I say tightly.

“Indeed. Of course. I should put Sylvie to bed.” He rises and lifts his sister into his arms, cradling her as effortlessly as a lamb. But at the door, he pauses and looks back. “Thank you, Miss Pryor.”

I look up. “For?”

“Piecing the world back together.” His eyes fall on the map. “Even if you did put South Africa upside down.”

Startled, I look down, and he makes his final exit with a low, husky laugh.

Fates damn him, he’s right. Ithoughtsomething had looked off about the map. I stare at the inverted tip of Africa for a long while, my stomach in knots. Curling my hand into a fist, I find I can still feel the warm press of the laird’s skin against mine.

“Truly, heisa most insufferable man,” I murmur to the flames.

Chapter Thirteen

In the middle of the night, I lurch suddenly awake.

I lie still and listen, wondering what startled me. Nothing in the room stirs. The window is dark glass, without even the faintest moonlight to silver it. I breathe in the scent of the beeswax candles and the freshly laundered sheets and think perhaps my imagination has got the better of me. Absurdly, I think of Sylvie’s ghost, and a chill prickles over my skin.

Then I hear it: athumpabove, as if something heavy has hit the floor.

Sylvie’s room.

I roll out of bed and land on my bare feet, already beginning to Weave a cat’s cradle as I squint at the clock. It’s two in the morning. Nobody should be awake, not even her.

I creep down the corridor to the first stair; the steps creak no matter how softly I tread. On the upper floor the hallway stretches into shadow. My feet are chilled by the cold floorboards. Light shines beneath Sylvie’s door, but all is quiet again. In a tall painting beside me, a North ancestor looks down broodily; he has Conrad’s dark brows and wavy hair. I give him a scowl and scurry past, every sense craning. The threads between my hands quiver; with a breath of magic, they’ll release a spell to immobilize anything and anyone who might mean harm.

Another thump rattles Sylvie’s door and is followed by a crash.

I break into a run, reaching for magic, prepared to stun unconscious whatever’s on the other side of that door. Keeping my spellknot taut, I bend my thumb and little finger just enough to turn the knob—

—and stumble into a maelstrom.

Sylvie is spinning in midair, lit by the candles burning on her dresser, surrounded by a swirl of flying detritus: shoes, dolls, hairbrushes, vases, a great many wooden carvings of animals and warriors. It’s all whirling around, faster and faster, objects crashing together and spinning away, bouncing off the walls.

“Rose!” Sylvie cries out. “Help!”

She flails around, tipping head over heels. Her window is open, and she’s heading straight for it; she’ll spin into the night and then, when the hovering knot around her ankle has worn out, she’ll plummet to her death.

I lunge across the room, dodging flying objects, and then leap, grabbing her by her heel just as she floats through the casement.

With a grunt, I pull her back inside and rip the knot off her ankle. The thread turns to ash in my hands—she was only a second away from falling three stories.

Sylvie collapses onto me, and we both crash to the floor.

Keeping low, for there are still dozens of items spinning overhead, I unravel the unused stunning knot I’d woven and rework it into a settling charm.

My first attempt fails, leaving my heart clenching, but the second works. The charm seizes the errant objects and gently returns them to the floor.

A moment passes, in which Sylvie and I both pant for breath, surrounded by a mess of toys and candlesticks and broken vases.

Then she rolls to her feet and spreads her arms wide, her face flushed and her hair wild.

“Did youseethat?” she asks. “Did you see what I did?”