Page 84 of The Moorwitch

So far, I’ve found nothing which might help me open the way to Elfhame, but the difference in the house is staggering. Pale light floods the once gloomy hallways, striping the carpets and walls. Ravensgate is like a winter field showing the first signs of spring.

“All right, troops,” I say, setting down my empty teacup. “Top floor cleared, on to the attic!”

Sylvie’s eyes grow wide, but before she can reply, Mrs. MacDougal cuts in. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come,” I tease. “We’ve got our momentum now. Right, Sylvie?”

But Sylvie looks into her cup and says nothing.

“We do not go into the attic,” Mrs. MacDougal says.

“Why?” I lean to Sylvie and prod her with an elbow. “Be there dragons?”

But seeing her serious little face, I realize this might not be a battle I can win. Mrs. MacDougal is entirely unamused. She picks up our brooms and cloths, holding them as if they are contraband. “Sylvie, you’ve quite ruined that dress. Come, let’s get you changed before your brother gets home.”

“But—”

“Go, lassie! Now!”

Sylvie sulks but obeys, driven to her room by the housekeeper.

When they’re gone, I quietly put away the tea and then go to the attic stair door, which is firmly locked with three different bolts, but my unlocking Weaves make quick work of them.

I creep up the stairs with caution, unsure what waits. But Iwillfind out; if it’s important enough to merit three locks, then maybe it’s important enough to get me into Elfhame.

The air here smells dusty and stale, like an old wooden chest that hasn’t been opened for years. The stairs go on and on, further than it seems they ought, as if I’ve climbed out of the manor entirely and entered an invisible floor. I drag my palm along the wall for guidance, for the darkness here is nearly absolute, even in this late afternoon.

But then I turn a narrow corner and see a rectangle of pale light; a doorway. Quickening my steps, I go through it and find myself in a vast room raised by mighty beams, on a floor gray with dust. The space is massive and entirely empty—except for a large, silent loom.

It stands in the center of the chamber, lonely, resolute. I breathe out as I approach it, eyes wide and fingers itching to touch the tapestry hanging upon its frame.

The piece is exquisite, and judging by the faded colors, it is decades or perhaps even more than a century old. The closer I get, the more detail stands out in its tightly woven threads: little buildings, hills, rocks, roads, streams, and lochs.

Blackswire.

I stop a half yard from the tapestry and let my hand linger over the village, while not daring to touch the old threads. It is not just Blackswire I find, but the rolling hills around it, the rivers tumbling through it, the forests and moors ... and Ravensgate.

It is a map of the entire surrounding area, wrought with exquisite craftsmanship by some bygone Weaver of masterful skill. A border of Celtic knotwork frames the piece, gorgeously intricate. And I need only close my eyes to know it is humming with magic: I feel it simmering on the air, like steam off a boiling pot of water. It bubbles over my skin and prickles through my hair. This is no common spellpiece, and no ordinary magic.

It is the heart of the great ward which surrounds the township, and which has repelled Lachlan and his followers for centuries.

I wonder if Lachlan knows it is here, tucked into the eaves of Ravensgate. He certainly never mentioned anything of it to me.

For several long, wondering minutes I marvel at the tapestry’s design, then I circle the loom to study the far messier but even more impressive back. Here threads tangle in a seething mess, but the longer I look, the more the pattern of it appears; in the loops and knots and wads of weft, there is a kind of harmony. It is the same image as the one on the front of the tapestry, but fragmented. Unraveled. The world unmade and raw. My fingers hover over it, and I think of how Lachlan described the Dwirra Tree as growing out of the backside of this world’s tapestry.

I can find no sign of recent work on the loom. The spell was completed long ago, and now it only needs to be guarded. Its woolen thread is thick and sturdy, spun to hold magic for many, many years. Eventually, of course, it will disintegrate into ash and will have to be remade, but not in my lifetime.

Pulling my hands out of reach, resisting the terrible temptation to touch it, I retreat regretfully. Awe-inspiring as the loom is, it is not what I am looking for.

And I’m not about to fool with it. If that spell broke, Lachlan and Tarkin and a hundred other faeries would be clamoring at Ravensgate’s doorstep within minutes.

Chapter Twenty-Six

After dressing the next morning, I arrange my threadkit and then step into the hallway, intending to search Conrad’s study before breakfast while everyone is occupied downstairs. The laird did not return home yesterday, and I can only guess he spent the night in Elfhame.

But I make it not five steps down the corridor before I hear a shout from Sylvie in the foyer. “Connie! You’re back!”

Biting back a curse, I toss my threadkit back into my room.