Page 45 of The Moorwitch

Now, thanks to Sylvie, there is frost lacing my shoulders and collarbone, and cold water runs down my arms and face where the snow begins to melt.

I stare at Sylvie, at a loss for words, my mind vibrating between fury and wonder. She may be the most powerful Weaver I have ever encountered. Stronger than me, certainly, and to think for all these years, her talent has lain dormant, not only neglected but actively suppressed by her brother.

I rise to my feet and go to the door. “Sylvie, go to bed. It’s late.”

“What?” She blinks. “But—but we’re only just getting started!”

“Started at what?”

“Well ...” She raises her hands. “My lessons.”

“Your lessons?” I shake my head. “I’m not here to teach you.”

“But youmust.” Her eyes begin to well with tears. “I was going to show you what I could do, once I’d got it under control. I thought for sure you’d be my teacher. I want this. I want it more than anything in the world.”

I stand frozen in place, my pulse pounding in my ears. I glance at the shriveled plants in the terrariums and think of the damage an untrained Weaver can do.

“Please!” She clasps her hands together in supplication. “Nothing ever felt so right or wonderful or good! Please, Rose. I want to be like you. I want magic!”

I want magic, Aunt.

I have a right to it, same as anyone!

I shut my eyes, leaning on the door. I can hear my own voice, clearer than I ever have since that horrible night. My hands move subconsciously to my throat, to the burn scar on my neck.

“You have to teach me,” Sylvie says, and I open my eyes with a shudder. “We can practice in secret. Just you and me. Connie doesn’t ever have to know! Please?”

“You need a proper teacher,” I whisper. “I can’t—I’m not here to get involved. Even if I wanted to, I have my own—I have to go.”

“But, Rose—”

I flee down the hallway, fists clenched, so angry I could scream. That anger is good; it is hot and powerful, and before it, the memory of my aunt disappears. It’s so strong it’s almost like magic coursing through me, filling me with strength.

I will find Conrad North, and there will be a reckoning.

Chapter Fourteen

I storm down the hallway, thinking of all the ways I’d like to hex the laird of Ravensgate for sabotaging his own sister’s magical potential. The girl’s pleas hammer at my ears as if she were hiding under my bed whispering them through the night.

Please, Rose. I want to be like you.

Mr. North’s room is at the far end of the hall. I nearly burst in, but force myself to stop and draw a few breaths.

For all I know, he sleeps in the nude.

The notion leaves me flushed, and for a moment, I forget why I am here and that I should be angry. But it takes only a heartbeat for my fury to come rushing back.

When I knock and get no reply, I decide justice is worth the risk of exposed lairds.

I open the door softly and peer in. Mr. North’s room is dark and silent, a jungle of dark furniture and a heavily curtained four-poster bed.

“Mr. North?”

I take a few hesitant steps inside, my eyes adjusting to the dark and picking out small details: a globe by the window, the spiky silhouette of his bagpipes on a chair, and a collection of seashells on the dresser by my hand. Another careful step takes me nearer to the still-made-up bed.

He is not in it.

I cast about at a loss, when a light through the window catches my eye.