Page 58 of The Moorwitch

He cocks his head, his lips slanted into a cunning smile. “Really? Do you believe that?”

I stare incredulously. “Of course I do!”

“You ought to look in a mirror then.” Taking my hand, he spins me around, and thereisa mirror, a massive thing in a gilded frame. Where the Fates did it come from? Lachlan holds me in place, his hands on my arms and his chin hovering by my ear, our reflections gazing back at us. “Look at her. She is not the same shivering, wretched thing I found in that boarding house. That Rose’s cheeks are flushed and her eyes shine. She has come alive in this place, like an ember that required only a bit of wild wind to burst into flame.”

Blinking, I try to think of a barbed reply but find none. I can only stare at myself in his inexplicable mirror, and to my surprise, I see the change he describes.

I am not who I was mere weeks ago. Iammore alive, more driven. Perhaps some of that is desperation, the dread of losing my magic, but not all of it.

“Remember, sweet Rose,” he breathes into my ear, sending a shiver down the back of my neck. “The whole world overlooked you, but not I. The world expected nothing of you, but not I.Isee who you truly are and how dazzling you could become.”

His hand traces down my arm, over my palm, leaving a tingling trail of ice.

“Sir Faerie,” I say shakily. “Unhand me.”

With a soft laugh, he steps back, his hands falling to his sides. “Who knows? Perhaps at the end of this, you’ll wish to remain at my side.”

“What?” I whisper, turning to face him.

“Clearly something here has awakened you. Is it my company?” He leans closer, until his face is inches from mine, tilted as if for a kiss. My skin prickles. “You are not like other humans, are you, my little witch? You see deeper. You feel the currents of the world.”

“You’re speaking nonsense, as usual.”

But my heart beats fast against my ribs, with panic, revulsion, or intrigue I cannot tell. One moment, I feel like his plaything, a foolish pet he holds on a string. And then there are other moments ... like now. His winter eyes are fixed on mine, probing and curious, and I feel for the first time as if he is truly seeingme. It is a startling sensation, to be seen by him, to hold the whole of this immortal being’s attention. His gaze scours me to the depths of my thoughts, until I feel suddenly very exposed. And even though I want to look away, I find I cannot.

It’s as if he’s cast a spell, another clever threadless trick.

It is strange. All my life, there has been a part of me longing to be seen, to be understood and valued. Now here is this beautiful faerie, saying all the words my soul has craved to hear.

And I find I want nothing more than to hide.

“When this is over,” he says, his voice soft as falling snow, “where will you go?”

My breath flutters in my lungs. “Back to London, of course. To my classroom and my students.”

“And if you find you have outgrown such a humble position?” His jeweled eyes flicker, touching every part of my face. “What if—”

He is interrupted by a chorus of shouts across the ruins. His head snaps up, and the spell is broken.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, but he’s already walking away, moving with swift steps.

The fae are gathered around one of their own, a willowy creature with a mass of black braids hanging over his shoulders, dressed like the others in a mourning cloak. But he kneels and clutches his side, and even in the dim light, I can see that he is wounded.

“My lord!” he gasps out, when Lachlan reaches him. “I nearly had him! But he came at me through the boundary, with a pack of wolves at his heels! One of them bit me!”

“What are you talking about, Tarkin?” Lachlan demands, kneeling to inspect the faerie’s wound.

“The queen’s Gatekeeper! He was near the boundary line, and I thought—I thought to make him pay for Lorellan. They shouldallpay, every last one—”

“Fool!” Lachlan hisses, leaping upright, his lean form whip-fast and his teeth bared in a snarl. “You know the orders I gave! No one—no one—was to interfere!”

The other fae shrink back, eyes wide, leaving the bleeding Tarkin to grovel alone. “My lord! I—I thought if he were out of the way—”

“I’vetoldyou how delicate this endeavor is, you idiot.” Lachlan pinches the bridge of his nose. “What happened?”

“I tried to burn him, but it got out of hand. The wood was drier than it seemed, the blaze spread ...”

“Oh,” I breathe, grabbing hold of Lachlan’s arm again. “There!”