Page 5 of The Moorwitch

The wind dies; the pages stop rustling. I’m trembling and dizzy, my eyes wet with tears. My neck still pulses with pain from the pipe burn. I can’t hear Aunt Lenore. Did she open the door? Was I too late? I can only wait and quiver in a silence so deep I wonder if I’ve gone deaf. Shadows thicken around me as if night has fallen all at once, snuffing out the sunlight.

Finally, after a long moment, I lift my head, letting out a long, shaky breath.

And feel a cold hand close on my shoulder.

Chapter One

Twelve years later

“All it takes to change your fate is a bit of thread,” I say quietly.

I draw a spool from my pocket and slowly unwind it, spun wool the color of goldenrod coiling around my finger, rough and frayed from use.

“Magic,” I continue, as the twenty small girls and four boys before me watch raptly, “is the great equalizer. We may only be a small charity school, but the magic we can spin is as true and strong as that of the greatest Weavers in England, or indeed—theworld. And as Weavers, magic is our right. It is a power no one may take from us.”

My fingers dip and curl, twisting the thread in patterns as familiar to me as the beating of my own heart. Around and over, through and beneath, the threads tighten into place, and as I Weave, I channel magic into my hands through the tips of my fingers.

For a moment, my heart seizes.

A spasm of pain radiates through my chest, and I think,No. Not again.

I push through the pain, my head spinning, and channel into the cat’s cradle. The thread begins to glow.

The students lean forward on their desks, hands clutching their spools, eyes wide. This is a young class, most of them new to Weaving. But they’ll learn quickly. My students always do; they are survivors all, the outcasts and rejects, who must scrap and fight for every day, everycrust of bread, every warm ember in the cold winter winds. It seems so short a time ago that I sat among them, in my brown, shapeless frock with my hair unspooling from its braids, desperate for the magic my own teacher, stern old Sister Elizabeth, wove for us.

Most of these children will go on to be teachers as well, the girls governesses to luckier children, the few boys to military appointments. They’ll pass on everything I teach them, all the embroiders and weaves, knots and patterns. They’ll live modest lives, but at least they’ll have a chance with the magic at their fingertips. Without it, they—I—would be nothing. Strays in a loveless world, kicked to the gutter. Magic is their only hope, just as it is mine.

When the spellknot is complete, a symmetrical net spread between my hands, the magic releases and snow begins to drift down from the ceiling. The children cry out in joy, rising to their feet and lifting their hands. Snowflakes melt on their palms, and they lick the cool water delightedly.

To hide my shaking hands and weak knees, I quietly lean against the wall. In my chest, my heart squeezes in reproach, and I wait for my pulse to settle before I dare lift my head.

“Sister Rose?”

I look down at the small curly head in front of me. Carolina. One of our newest. She reaches out and grips the edge of my pinafore. Snowflakes rim her face, clinging to the delicate wisps of strawberry hair curling at her temples.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“Of course,” I lie.

“Is it your heart again?”

“I’ll be fine. Go back to your desk, dear.”

She turns away with a little skip. I straighten and put on a smile, but then hear a step behind me. I turn to see Sister Agatha in the doorway. She stares at me, her gray eyes accusing.

“Sister Agatha!” I call out, hating the stitch of desperation in my voice. “A moment!”

But she is already gone, a harsh smirk on her lips.

I cannot abandon my class to pursue her, despite the knife of dread twisting in my gut. How much did she see? What does she think she knows?

“I’m fine,” I whisper. “I’mfine.”

Turning back to the class, I calm the children and send them back to their desks. They are flushed and bright-eyed, taking out their embroidery hoops and polishing their needles. They follow my instruction dutifully, little fingers stabbing their needles in and out of the muslin stretched over their hoops. Not spells, these, just basic stitches they’ll later combine into true Weaves. I walk between the rows of desks, critiquing their work. Their small fingers fly with the dexterity of youth and keen minds. The room fills with the gentle, soothing sound of needles clicking against thimbles.

The door to the classroom opens, and a round, apple-cheeked woman walks in, her skirts and tight-fitting veil stiff with embroidery. I straighten as the children all jump to their feet, bodies rigid with respect for their headmistress.

“Good morning, Mother Bridgid,” the children intone, and I mumble with them, out of habit, as if I were nine years old again and crammed into one of those tiny chairs.