Page 83 of The Moorwitch
“We’re going toclean the house?” Sylvie asks, her eyes wide.
I brace myself for an argument, but before I manage a word, she adds, “This is thebest day ever! I’ll be just like Cinderella, slaving away before my evil, jealous stepmother!”
Mrs. MacDougal sputters and waves her hands. “Off with the pair of you, then! And Fates bless, don’tbreakanything!”
In minutes, I’ve armed myself and Sylvie with brooms and dustcloths, and she giggles when I tie back her hair and cover it with a handkerchief. Next we tie on aprons. We have buckets of water, lye soap, and an absurdly ornate tea cart to push it all on.
“Will we get in trouble?” she asks. “Connie doesn’t like things being moved around.”
“Connie isn’t here,” I say. “And besides, a little fresh air and sunlight can cheer even the grumpiest of brothers.”
We scurry up one hall and down the next, tearing down curtains and canvases. I can hardly blame the housekeeper. The place is simply too vast for any one person to keep up with. Whenever I find a window that isn’t jammed shut, I open it and let in cool breezes which chase usdown the corridors and clear out the musty smell, while rain spatters the sills. Everywhere we go, Captain lopes along, then throws himself onto the carpets to watch us with a perplexed expression.
“Wouldn’t this be easier with magic?” Sylvie asks, leaning on her broom handle.
“It would.” Thinking back to my first conversation with Conrad, I smile. “But sometimes the body needs honest hard work.”
Though that work is taxing, it’s something todo. It alleviates my feeling of helpless panic, which had threatened to leave me flattened on the floor for the next week. But no matter how hard I scrub, I cannot wash away Lachlan’s poisonous touch or his silken whispers in my ear.
In a cherrywood chest, I find a partially unraveled shawl folded up. It looks as though a mouse has been nibbling at the hems, drawing away threads for its nest. When I unfold it, I find tucked inside an untitled oil portrait of a woman in bright Romani clothing, barefoot on a hillside; by her olive skin and black hair alone I know her to be Conrad’s mother. If there were any doubt, he has her amber eyes. I am struck by the vividness of her gaze, glimpsing the bright and joyful spirit she must have been. It saddens me to think of her struck down by faeries, for simply wanting to be free of them.
“Good on you,” I whisper to the portrait. “At least you tried to fight back.”
Something about Vera North’s face makes me think she would hate her portrait being shut up in a chest. I polish the frame and respectfully set it on a shelf, where her tiger eyes can gaze out the window. Around her shoulders is what appears to be the very same shawl in which I found the portrait.
I run my fingers through the mess of tangled threads, then quietly tuck the shawl into my cleaning basket for later, more careful inspection. That done, I turn back to polishing picture frames with Sylvie.
We unveil portraits of Sylvie’s long-dead relations, and she puzzles out their names and we work out how, exactly, they fit onto her family tree. The North clan was once quite vast, spread around Blackswirein several large houses, but I’m guessing only Ravensgate is still in the family. Many of the Norths, I note, died quite young. It saddens me to think how lively and full this house must have once been.
In one hung frame, hidden behind a canvas sheet, we find an almost life-size image of Liam North, Sylvie’s father.
“Oh,” she breathes, clasping her hands on her chest and staring up at the stern figure. “Da.”
“Do you remember him?” I ask gently.
She shakes her head. Wisps of hair have escaped her kerchief and cling to her face. Dust smudges the end of her nose, where she pressed it against dirty windowpanes. “He died when I was a bairn.”
He was a striking man, with strong features and thick dark hair peeking out from beneath a formal white wig. His kilt boasts the North tartan, and tucked into his knee-high stocking is the same sgian-dubh his son now carries. Despite his rigid pose and solemn face, he has a glint of mirth in his eye, as if he possesses some wonderful secret.
Conrad North looks quite like him.
I regard the man with conflicted feelings. He killed Fiona, a fellow Weaver, after all. But if Lachlan’s story was true, he had good reason.
“You have his nose,” I tell Sylvie, and she raises a hand to her face, looking awed. She spends fifteen minutes polishing the frame.
Sylvie works like a fiend, taking particular joy in perching atop my shoulders so we can reach the high ceilings, startling the spiders who have no doubt founded long dynasties and expansive kingdoms there, undisturbed for decades. We dash them away in moments, and they scuttle into the cracks, defeated.
In her zeal, Sylvie accidentally knocks over a fine vase. It shatters into bits on the carpet, and for a moment, I freeze in place, eyes fixed on the shards. The chill of old, familiar terror crackles over my skin, my stomach clenching with dread. I swear I can smell the faintest wisp of tobacco smoke wafting down the hallway.
Then Sylvie laughs, and the sounds banishes the senseless, icy terror gripping my heart.
“Whoopsie,” she says.
I give a weak smile and remind myself this is not my aunt’s house. Conrad is not Lenore. Sylvie can break a vase without fearing for her life.
Suppressing laughter, we hurriedly gather up the broken pieces and hide them in a large urn before the housekeeper can see.
After a few hours, Mrs. MacDougal brings us tea, which we lay out on the foyer floor as if we were picnicking. The front doors are open, giving us a grand view of the rain sweeping across the drive.