Page 59 of The Moorwitch

In the distance, on the eastern edge of Blackswire where the wood meets the moor, smoke rises thick, black, and angry, lit by the red glowof flames below. I realize at once, with a thunderclap of horror in my chest, that the fire is rushing west, toward Ravensgate.

“I have to go!” I cry.

“Rose, wait!” Lachlan says, but I am already gone, running back across the ruins. Lachlan calls my name, but I ignore him, throwing myself through the tapestry and landing in my bedroom in Ravensgate.

Chapter Eighteen

“Fire!” I shout, as I rush through the manor. The hallways are dark, but I hear voices downstairs. As I careen down the foyer steps, Mrs. MacDougal emerges from the kitchens, her eyes wide.

“Miss Pryor! What on earth—”

“Wildfire, to the east!” I gasp out. “I ... saw it from my window. Where is Sylvie?”

Fates, let her be nearby.

Thankfully, the girl herself appears, dressed in armor made of silver tea trays and a great many brooches strung together. She clatters as she walks. “What’s going on? Where’s Connie?”

“He’s out doing an inspection of the grounds,” says Mrs. MacDougal.

“What? In the middle of the night?”

“He said something about some missing sheep. He’ll be out till dawn if he must, off to the east.”

“East ...” The same direction as Lachlan’s camp. The hills there are steep, the land full of crags and crannies. If he’s down in one of the ravines, he may not see the fire till it’s overtaken him.

“Mr. MacDougal is down at the pub,” the housekeeper frets, wringing her hand. “I cannot send him out to warn the laird.”

“I’ll go, then.” I push through the front doors and pause on the gravel drive.

“Take one of the horses!” says Mrs. MacDougal. “Quickly!”

“Ariadne’s the fastest,” says Sylvie.

I push aside a wave of panic; I almost say I’d be better off walking than trying to stay atop one of Conrad’s tall horses. But I go to the stable anyway, opening the stall door. Sylvie helps me saddle a gray-flecked mare, and I hastily Weave thread into her mane: a spell to calm her, a spell to speed her gait, and an empathy knot to make her pliant to my commands.

All too soon, it’s time for me to mount up. Sylvie pushes a block my way, and I force myself into the saddle before I have a chance to think about it. The calming knots, or else the animal’s good breeding, prove effective, and she waits placidly for me to find my seat.

“Find Connie!” says Sylvie. “Please, Rose!”

“I will.”

I channel into the empathy knot, and Ariadne’s mane begins to glow as the threads light. At once the spell takes hold of her, infusing her mind with my sense of urgency. I shout at Sylvie to stand back as the mare bursts from the stable. I barely keep my seat when the horse spins on the drive, her hooves flinging gravel as she turns east.

Ariadne thunders over the earth with me clinging to her back like an alarmed cat. When the reins tumble from my grip, I hold fast to her mane, my eyes straining to open against the wind. My threadkit jounces over my shoulder; I fear its strap will break.

In the distance, the dark sky brightens to an unsettling shade of orange—the fire is spreading fast. Ariadne’s hooves crush the heather and rip up clods of mud, her muscles bunching and releasing beneath me as she skids down hillsides. My feet are knocked from the stirrups. Teeth clenched, I send up a silent prayer to the Fates that the horse does not snap her leg in the darkness, or my neck.

We approach the fire in mere minutes, a fraction of the time it would have taken me to reach the blaze had I been running even at my fastest pace. When we near the edge of the fire, close enough that theheat washes over me in a wave, Ariadne rears and whinnies, and will go no closer.

The flames before me are savage and frenzied, no ordinary fire. The blaze takes the shape of great beasts, like red-orange bears trampling the earth and swinging their heads about, throwing fire in all directions. Even the sound the fire makes is animalistic, the fire-bears’ roars as deep and angry as thunder. One catches sight of me and Ariadne and rears up on two legs to bellow a challenge. From its mouth pours a torrent of hot sparks.

I recognize a curse when I see one and know this must be the work of either Tarkin or the queen’s faerie servant—the Gatekeeper Tarkin attacked. Their fight has set the entire eastern moor ablaze, despite the snow and damp. And if these fire-bears are not stopped, they will reach Ravensgate in minutes.

Suddenly I hear a high whinny to my right and turn to see a black shape hurtling toward us, out of the flames.

Bell.

I recognize the muscled gelding from watching Conrad ride off on him each morning.