Page 64 of The Moorwitch

The illumination is white and blinding, growing in the center of the circle like a star being born. I blink hard but do not look away, my pulse quickening.

The light spreads and grows, forms a shape like a great eye, broken only by the laird’s silhouette. He stands at the epicenter of a massive, intricate Celtic knot, its complexity beyond my ability to memorize in the mere moments it is visible. It reminds me of the spells I glimpsed in my uncle’s moorwitch book, a pattern ancient and terrible.

I hold my breath and step out from my hiding place just as Conrad North, who doesn’t believe in faeries, steps into faerie land.

Behind him, in the circle, the eye of light is beginning to shrink. I wait as long as I can, letting him put distance between him and me. Then I rush forward at once, without a thought for what I might do beyond reaching that gate before it closes. I replicate his steps through the defensive wards and throw myself through the portal before it can close, unsure if I’m too late, expecting to only flop onto the mossy ground like a desperate fool.

Instead, I land in another world.

Chapter Twenty

The first thing I notice is trees.

There is nothing but trees in every direction. But they are unlike any trees I’ve ever seen; their trunks are pale and their branches spidery; the leaves are bloodred. Dragging myself to my knees, I press my hand against the nearest trunk and then withdraw it with a shudder; the bark iswarm, like flesh.

What was the name of the tree Lachlan wants? The Dwirra. Could one of these be it? They are uniform in size and shape; I can see no feature which might distinguish one as being special from the others.

Conrad is nowhere in sight, nor is any other living creature. The stillness here is unnatural, like the stillness of the stone circle itself. No wind, no insects, no chittering squirrels. The light here is dim, faintly violet in hue, and I cannot tell the source of it. The sky above—if it is sky at all—is but blank shadow. No stars, no moon, no clouds. The spot where I landed is not marked or in any way distinctive. I remember what Lachlan told me about portal magic, and how every door needs an anchor to open to, but I see nothing here which might be the anchor to the stone circle. No doorway or portal back to my own world.

The ground is covered with scarlet leaves, and with dark-violet mosses and emerald ferns, but there is none of the scrubby undergrowth I would expect in any ordinary wood. Instead, I can see far betweenthe trees, deep into the depths of the strange, silent forest. Trunks like white columns march in all directions, and in the far distance, they fade into a red haze. The only motion comes from the trees themselves, where the occasional leaf slips loose and drifts idly to the ground. The air tastes faintly of sweet summer wine and fills my nose with the ripe, dark scent of blackberries.

Slowly I rise, staying alert, lest my presence startle something or someone out of the shadows, and take a cautious step forward. Nothing moves. Another step. Another. Then I am walking, slow and careful, shivering even though the air is warm.

Is this really Elfhame, the enchanted faerie land? Then where are the faeries? Why am I alone?

With luck, I won’t meet them at all. I’ll slip right through, cut a branch from this damnable tree, and return to the human world, where I can finally free myself from this yearslong nightmare.

I struggle to hope it will be that simple.

How strange this place is. The further away things are, the more convoluted their shapes appear. Trees twist in unlikely forms until I get close to them, when they appear straight. But when I’ve passed by, I look back and see them warping again.

I come to a little brook, which ought to be babbling and splashing. But instead, the water flows sluggishly. After a moment’s hesitation, I dip my hand into it. It feels like water, but it moves more like rolling honey. Parched as I am, I don’t consider drinking; Fates only know what faerie water would do to me. I cross on stones and walk on.

A blur of movement catches my eye, like something low and lean streaking across the ground. I whirl, standing frozen in place as I scan the trees, but there is nothing there. I recall Lachlan’s eerie warning about the faerie queen:She will make your death painful and slow.

Why didn’t I ask him more about what to expect here? In hindsight, this should have been my first concern. But so focused was I on simplygettinghere I never gave much thought to what might follow. Or perhaps a part of me never truly believed I would make it this far.

Am I even going in the right direction? I stop dead at that, breaking into a cold sweat. I’d never considered which way to go, I’d justwalked.

I look back, then side to side, but see nothing to break the monotony of the woods. I start to step forward but can’t. What if it’s the wrong direction? What if every step I take is leading me further from where I need to go?

“What’s wrong?” whispers a voice. “Have you lost your way, dearest niece?”

I gasp and twist around, searching for her, but all I see are looming trees. The woods warp around me, mocking me. I lose my balance and land on my hands and knees. Scurrying forward, I find my feet and throw myself into a sprint.

All around me, her laughter echoes.

“You’re not real!” I cry, hands thrashing at the branches which block my way. “It’s just this place!”

Choking for air, I run and run, but her voice follows me, whispering. I can smell the tobacco from her pipe.

“Little bird . . .”

“No!” I shout. “I’m seeing this through, and you cannot stop me!”

She’s only an illusion. It’s this place, playing tricks on me.

But the panic in my breast is all too real.