Page 69 of The Moorwitch
She stops, her back to me, the lines of her sharp shoulder blades visible through her gown. Her head is slightly bowed, her dark hair parted over her shoulders so that the pale column of her neck is exposed.
“It is not often a mortal visits my realm. With the exception of my Gatekeeper, of course.”
I think of Conrad stepping into that glowing portal but say nothing. I still do not know the entirety of his part in this strange drama, and I want to know more before I make him a topic of conversation with the most dangerous creature in—or below—the earth.
Now Morgaine turns, just enough to peer at me over her shoulder, one glinting emerald eye fixing on my face.
“We are to have a revel,” she says. “There will be dancing and feasting in homage to me, and you, my little witch, my stray lamb, are invited to join.”
“I don’t want to dance. I want to leave. When can I go home?”
She laughs, low and soft. “You have trespassed on my lands, set foot in my faerie court. You have looked upon the Dwirra, the most sacred of trees.” Her head tilts, and she leans closer, until for a dizzying moment, I think she will kiss me. I meet her green eyes and find myself transfixed.
“Little witch, did you think I would ever let youleave?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
A faerie revel, as it turns out, is something like a human ball—if all the humans were punch drunk and half dressed and the musicians hexed with a hastening spell. It is a chaotic jumble of noise and limbs and light.
Morgaine leads me down a narrow stone stair that wends down the back of the Dwirra Tree’s hill, to a wide clearing of moss ringed by craggy standing stones, much like the ones that circle the portal in the human world. Trees grow around the perimeter, their branches glowing brightly with clusters of those strange fruit-like lamps, and between the lights wend vines of ivy and fragrant purple wisteria. In the center of the clearing burns a large crackling bonfire.
Gathered there are hundreds of fae, dancing and shrieking with utter abandon. Linked hand in hand, they form several rings around the fire, moving at a rapid, reckless pace. If any of them tripped, they would be trampled by the others. Their shadows, cast from the bonfire, twist behind them with lives of their own, flickering over the oblong stones.
The fae are dressed in revealing, almost nonexistent garments, thighs and waists and shoulders bare, their skirts and tunics ragged, petaled things that resemble crushed roses, not unlike my own gown. Colorful painted patterns ring their eyes and curl down their cheeks, necks, and arms, vanishing beneath their sheer, many-layered garments.Hanging from the hems of their clothing are tiny baubles, beads and buttons and keys and thimbles, human things, the sort of trinkets that one might drop on the road—none of iron, of course. The fae have turned the objects into glinting jewelry, and the result is a glittering, tinkling spectacle. They have even studded their wild, tangled hair with them.
Faerie musicians blow, pluck, and pound on instruments I do not recognize, though I can guess at their human counterparts—flute and fife, fiddle and cello, drum and harp. The music is furious and fast, a fever dream of a song, played with no regard for harmony. The notes clash and writhe in the air, and yet somehow emerge symphonic, beauty born of chaos.
“My people are beautiful,” sighs Morgaine. “Their songs a tribute to my ears, and their steps an homage to my rule.”
The music scurries beneath my skin and bursts behind my ribs, tugging at my heart.
“Do you wish to join the revel?” asks Morgaine, her voice sibilant in my ear.
“Yes,” I say, before I can stop to think. My thoughts are beginning to blur; I catch myself leaning forward in anticipation. Music shivers over my skin, pulls insistently at my hair.
“Then go,” she says. “Dance, little witch, and forget the world above.”
I move forward in a daze, descending the rest of the stairs and setting foot in the mossy clearing. Everything spins around me, fae and tree and fire, and before I know it, hands grasp my arms and drag me in, linking me into the dance, submersing me in their dream.
Round and round I spin, clutching a faerie on either side. There is thread woven in their hair and on their clothes, I dimly realize. Spells upon spells, magic layered over magic, until the air is so thick with it I can barely breathe. The smell of it burns in my nose, smoky and sharp, blended with the sweetness of the wisteria overhead and the earthen aroma of trees and moss. Vaguely, I wonder what spells they are, butI cannot clear my thoughts to focus on any one Weave. Instead, my head is full of pounding drums, and I let myself be pulled and spun the length of the revel, handed from faerie to faerie. Their long fingers, with those extra joints, trail down my arms and twist my hair, and their eyes study me with a range of expressions—curiosity, delight, hunger, rage. In those glimpses the fae fragment, no longer a tribe of faceless, vibrant creatures, but individuals with different reactions to the human in their midst. Not all of them welcome me. Some look keen to take a bite of me. But I linger with none long enough to truly understand what they see in me, and the longer I dance, the less I notice. Like ink on a rain-spattered page, the whirling, twirling fae begin to run together and blur. I blink hard, trying to focus, but less and less makes sense. I’m not even sure if I am dancing anymore or sitting; the world wheels relentlessly around.
Then I find a familiar pair of eyes locked with mine: Morgaine has me in her arms, and for a moment, my head clears a little. The dance has splintered, the great rings of fae breaking up into pairs and trios who dance together, the steps seeming to consist only of holding tight to one another and whirling as fast as possible.
But Morgaine spins me slowly, her hands tight around my wrists.
“Did he let you in?” she asks softly. “Or did you sneak through like a mouse?”
I cannot answer her; my throat is too dry. My head is pounding now not only from music, but with pain, and my legs shake. I realize, dimly, I’ve been dancing for hours.
“My Conrad is loyal,” she says. “But he has his weaknesses. What are you to him, little witch? What spell have you woven over him?”
I can only shake my head.
She pulls me closer, her hands sliding around to lock behind my waist, so we spin close enough I can see the spiders in her hair.
“If he has fallen for you,” she whispers in my ear, “I can see why.”
“No,” I manage to return at last, my voice a rasp. “He had nothing to do with my coming here.”