Page 67 of The Moorwitch

Morgaine watches me while she pours her own glass. “Go on. Ask me the question tingling at the tip of your tongue.”

“The Wenderwood,” I blurt out, though that’s not at all what I’d intended to say. “I saw things in there ...”

“What did you see, witch?” She drains her wine in one long draft; I realize I’m staring at the muscles in her graceful neck, working as she swallows. I look away, my face hot.

“Nightmares,” I mutter. “That’s all it was.”

“Was it?” She lies down beside me, on her side, head propped on one hand while the other reaches out to stroke my forearm. I pull it away, the hairs rising on end.

“My watchers were real enough,” she says. “And they would have torn you limb from sinew if I had not stepped in. Naughty girl, leaping through portals, tossing herself into people’s lands as if she had any right. My watchers watch, and they defend my borders. But they were notallyou saw, were they?”

I shake my head, my mouth dry. “My aunt.”

“Ah.” Morgaine grins. “That is the nature of the Wenderwood—to reveal your deepest fears and most shameful secrets. I know the heart of every mortal who enters my lands. For when you know what a person fears, their will becomes yours to control.”

She grabs my hand suddenly, so fast and tight I cannot recoil. Her nails dig into the tender skin of my palm. Her eyes spark like green fire. “You are trembling still. How very afraid you are.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You’re afraid ofbeingafraid, and that’s the most powerful fear of all. Haven’t you heard? Magic is not for the faint of heart.”

I shiver with recognition at the simple phrase, which had once seemed so banal printed on the opening pages ofThe Westminster Weaving Primer. On her lips, the words are insidious, a dark prophecy spoken by a cruel oracle.

With a sigh, she rises and pulls her hair over one shoulder, studying me as if disappointed. “Come, then. I will show you my realm, and you will see what becomes of mortals who trespass here.”

My stomach drops. “Are you going to kill me?”

Her expression never changes as she steps backward through the door, her nails trailing on the frame. “Come, now. Hurry!”

I clamber out of the bed, and when my feet hit the floor, I see I’m still in my muddy dress, and my feet are bare. My threadkit is sitting by the wall, seemingly untampered with.

Dragging my fingers through my hair, I find it tangled with ribbons and white feathers and strings of pearls. With a shudder, I realize the faerie queen must have been playing with my hair while I slept, as if I were her doll.

“Is this ... spider silk?” I ask, pulling fine, sticky strands from my hair.

Looking up, I see Morgaine has already gone, through a mirrored door on the far side of the room. I grab my threadkit and run after her.

“Hurry,” she says. “You must change at once. The others are waiting.”

“Change? The others? What—?”

She snatches my hand and tugs me out of the bedroom and into a large dressing room, the walls hung with ornate burnished and warped mirrors. Chandeliers hang overhead, all jumbled together, cooled waxhanging from their arms like icicles. The air smells of sweet jasmine and honeysuckle, a heady scent that soon becomes cloying. Three large wardrobes, each looking plucked from a different century, line the furthest wall, and Morgaine throws each of these open. She settles on one garment and flings it at me, her eyes gleaming.

“Put it on,” she says.

Then she sits in an armchair upholstered in a patchwork of fabrics and waits.

I clutch the dress, my head whirling and cheeks hot. “N-now? Here?”

She raises one hand, and I spy thin silver threads tangled in her fingers. “Do you require encouragement, little witch?”

“You’re mad,” I whisper.

“Darling,” she says, “I am thequeenof madness.”

Gritting my teeth, I begin removing my torn dress, trying to cover myself with the other, which is an awkward affair. Morgaine seems to have no concern for modesty and watches with open interest.

Cursing beneath my breath, I wriggle into the dress she forced on me and glance around, looking for exits. There is only the one door, and I find I lack the courage to make a run for it, not with her ten paces away, staring straight at me.