Page 52 of The Moorwitch
Gasping, I push myself to my knees and stare at the stones and the thing I’d missed in my dazed wonder: a very fine thread stretched taut between them.
Looking over my shoulder, I scan the trees. If there was a woman there, she is gone now. Though in retrospect, I feel sure I must have imagined the specter. It could have been a deer, or a shaft of sunlight.
That, or Sylvie’s ghost is more real than I gave her credit for.
With a shiver, I put the apparition out of my mind and crawl forward to inspect the thread that knocked me off my feet.
It is a ward. Astrongward, and unlike the one surrounding Blackswire, this one is meant to keep out intruders ofallspecies, human or fae, and likely animal too.
This is definitely the right place.
Lachlan’s warning about the defenses which might surround the doorway were valid, it seems, and there will be more magic to counter here than mere discouragement charms. I rub my ribs and limp back to the stones, taking much greater care this time. Keeping a little distance and several rows of trees between me and the rocks, I follow the circumference of the circle and inspect every branch, twig, and trunk.
I begin to see more wards and hexes strung about, strings blending into the branches and grass. I narrowly avoid setting my foot in an immobilization hex. One stretches through the air at eye level, and I hold my fingers as close to it as I dare; most of these hexes will be activated by tripwires, so a simple touch, however light, will immobilize, shock, or even set me on fire. And these are no ordinary threads—they are thinner and lighter, almost invisible.
The spells are made, I realize with a chill, of spider thread.
Never have I heard of such a material being used to Weave spellknots. Never, that is, but in the old faerie tales.
It would take days to undo all these knots. They were not woven by an amateur, and many of the patterns are unfamiliar to me. Are they the work of the fae inside Elfhame?
I must clear my head—think, think,think.
How lovely it would have been to walk into this clearing and find the door here, open and waiting for me. But that’s not how these things work, is it? There’s always a secret, always a twist. There’s always a dragon that must be slain or tricked.
Round and round I walk, inspecting the circle’s defenses, as the sun tilts overhead and begins to decline, shadows growing longer. Even if I found a way through the wards, I’d still have to figure out which spell would open a portal to Elfhame.
Three more weeks until my magic is stolen from me. Three more weeks until every dream and hope I ever had slips through my fingers. Three weeks until I am no longer even a charity-school teacher, but justa girl with no money, no home, no name, and no other skill to make her way in the world.
Despair pools around my feet.
Thiserrandof Lachlan’s grows more difficult by the day, with layers of unexpected complications arising at every turn.
And after seeing the power at work to guard the stones, I can only wonder what—andwho—waits on the other side.
Chapter Sixteen
At breakfast the next morning, Sylvie pushes her poached egg around her plate, her face downcast. Conrad is away still on estate business, and she is still angry with me for refusing to teach her magic. Upon returning from my walk yesterday, I graded her work and then set her to conjugating French verbs for the rest of the day, under Mrs. MacDougal’s watchful eye. I’ve said nothing of the events of two nights ago, and how I found Sylvie Weaving in her room, a fact Sylvie seems keenly aware of. But there hasn’t been an opportunity for us to talk. After our conversation, Conrad seems to have redoubled his efforts to have us chaperoned, to both my and the housekeeper’s chagrin.
I chafe at being kept indoors. I should be at the stone circle, puzzling over the wards and attempting to find a way through them. My next report to Lachlan is due in two days; I have to have some notion of progress to show him. But I cannot spend another day “in Blackswire,” or my cover will grow thin.
As I sit stitching one of my old stockings, I feel Sylvie’s eyes flicking at me every few seconds, to see if I’ve noticed her black mood.
“Finish your breakfast, lassie,” says Mrs. MacDougal to Sylvie, as she kneads a ball of dough on the table. “’Tis to be a long, hard day of sitting around the library, and you’ll need your strength.”
Mrs. MacDougal shoots me a glower. She knows it’s on my account that she’s been saddled with shadowing me about atop her other duties, and she doesn’t love me for it. Despite Conrad’s assurances to the contrary, Mrs. MacDougal has not liked me since I arrived and she learned I could Weave; I wonder if her ill favor of me is due to my magic, or if she thinks me guilty of some greater crime—such as lying constantly about mytruepurpose here.
“We will go back to your French this morning, Sylvie,” I say. “I just need to finish darning this stocking ... there.” I set down the stocking and flex my cramped fingers. “All done.”
I channel quickly, lighting the embroidered charm I’ve actually been sewing, and at once Mrs. MacDougal’s head jerks up. She blinks twice, owlishly, then gives a great yawn and sinks into the chair by the stove. “Just a moment ...” she murmurs, her chin dropping. “Then I’ll finish ...”
She draws a loud snore, her hands falling to her sides.
Sylvie’s eyes stretch open, till they seem to take up half her face. “What just happened?”
I grin. “It’s a four-hour sleeping charm. When she wakes, she’ll go back to kneading her dough and never know the difference. We don’t have much time. Hurry. Put on your shoes while I pack a basket.”
Her mouth falls open and her hands lift to her cheeks. “You mean—?”