Page 6 of The Moorwitch

“Sister Rose Pryor,” she says, smiling rosily. “Would you join me in my office? Sister Agatha can take over your class for the remainder of the afternoon.”

My heart falls as Sister Agatha creeps into the room, giving me a quick, sly smile. I do not look at her as I exit, my hand pressed to my pattering heart.

I walk as one already condemned, trailing after Mother Bridgid to her office. The left wall of the hallway is lined with small, foggy windows, looking out onto the chaotic jumble of Pye Street. It is filled with beggars, thieves, and desperate souls, some come to beg for a drop of magic, some for bread, some for more nefarious purposes. The Perkins Charity School sits in the shadow of her older, more prestigioussister, the Westminster School of Weaving, with its famous abbey and all the dour sisters inside at their looms, Weaving prayers to the Fates. Those who cannot find charity there often wash up on our doorstep. And as sworn adherents to the Order of the Moirai, my sisters and I are duty bound to help them as best we can.

For a moment, my eye snags on a tall man leaning against the public house across the way. His gaze traces the outline of the school with eyes pale as the snow.

My chest pinches. I let out a gasp and grip the edge of the window.

“Sister Rose,” the headmistress calls from her office doorway. “If you please.”

I glance her way but can form no reply. The blood has drained from my body, leaving my heart clenching behind my ribs.

He can’t be here. It’s impossible.

I look out the window again to see that the man is no longer there. Or never was there, more like.

It’s been twelve years,I remind myself.He’s not coming back.

But as I step into Mother Bridgid’s office, I have to work to find my breath. The room feels cool despite the low fire in its blackened stone hearth. That cold is nothing to the chill that seized me when I thought I’d glimpsed that face. That beautiful, cruel, impossible face.

He’s not coming back.

The stone walls of the headmistress’s office seem to lean in on me, the ancient, rugged beams holding up the low ceiling in dire need of varnish. Though tidy, the room is packed with crates of thread and muslin, embroidery hoops and broken looms. All donated, all worn and in need of repair. As far as Moirene schools go, this is one of the smaller establishments, and a poorer one reliant on charity.

Mother Bridgid sits on her hard wooden chair by the fire. On her breast, the glint of silver thread draws attention to the trefoil knot embroidered on her collar, the sign of our order and the color of her station. The three loops are symbolic of the three Fates, watching us dispassionately from their celestial looms.

My own such knot is plain blue wool stitched neatly on my collar, but as precious to me as if it were spun gold.

“Remind me how old you were, Sister Rose,” she begins, “when you came to the Order of the Moirai?”

“I was eight,” I say softly. “It was after my aunt was institutionalized.”

“Ah. And the sisters delivered you here, to the Perkins School. A charity case, like our own humble students.”

I nod, my cheeks warm. Above her chair spreads a faded tapestry of the Fates at their looms. I try to distract myself by tracing their familiar forms. Fair Clotho turns out threads from her spindle, which dark Lachesis measures out. And withered Atropos, in her black gown and veil, looms with her shears, ready to snip short some unsuspecting life, her expression calm but resolute.

Of the three Fates, it is Atropos whose face always fascinated me most. Today I can nearly feel her breath on the back of my neck, my body tense as I wait to find out whether those shears will end me or not.

“You have been a great boon to this institution,” Mother Bridgid continues. “Which is why it grieves me to hear your troubles persist.”

My eyes return to the headmistress’s face. “I thank you for your concern, Mother, but I assure you that I am well.”

“Sister Agatha testifies otherwise, I fear. This is the third time I’ve had to speak with you about these chest pains.” She studies me beneath a furrowed brow. “They happen only when you channel?”

I press my lips together, swallowing the protest I know is futile. “Yes.”

“And they began . . . ?”

“A year ago, Mother.” As I have told her before, and as I am sure she recalls. In truth, I felt them longer ago than that, but I was able to ignore the pain for a while. I feel a sudden need to prove myself, to assure her my situation is not so dire as she may think. “My magic was never the strongest. But I more than made up for it with study. I was the first of my class to memorize all five hundred and eighty knots in the Newtonian Canon. I was the only one to complete the Gordian Knot.”

“And yet,” Mother Bridgid says, tapping her chin, “your magic wanes.”

I flush, looking down at my hands. “I can still Weave almost anything you like.”

“Then do.”

“I beg your pardon?”