Page 86 of The Moorwitch

Then Conrad turns to me.

I draw myself up, meeting his gaze squarely. But my heart feels untethered, knocking against my rib cage like a frantic pendulum. Lachlan’s words slither through my head.

To put you in the path of that lonesome young man was my grandest stroke of genius.

“Why are you still here?” Conrad asks. “I thought I was clear. I thought ... after that night ...”

“That I’d be so terrified out of my wits I’d have been halfway to London by now? I hardly thought you cared. After your interrogation, you vanished entirely.”

“I had business in Elfhame.”

“What, did you have more innocent maids to kiss for your queen’s amusement?”

His lips curl at one corner. “Would you be jealous if I had?”

I scoff, hoping he can’t see the blush that heats my ears.

His expression turns grim. “I cannot guarantee your safety here once she realizes I lied about us.”

“Why must you serve her? What hold does she have on your line?” Lachlan and Morgaine had both made it sound as if the position of Elfhame’s Gatekeeper were a hereditary one, passed through the North generations like a bad heirloom. But why? Did Conrad have any choice in the matter?

He shakes his head. “I only stopped by the house to eat, and now I must go out again and see how the south planting is proceeding. I do have an estate to run, ye ken.”

I’m torn for a moment; him leaving will give me the opportunity to search his study. But the chance to glean more information from him is enticing too. If he were to let slip some secret, perhaps how he learned to Weave the portal spell, it could be as useful as finding the pattern itself.

“I’ll come with you,” I say at last. “We can talk as we ride.”

He gives me a doubtful look. “Last time, you rode as if you’d never evenseena horse before.”

“But Ihaveridden one, now, haven’t I?”

“I wouldn’t call what you did—”

“Will you lend me a horse, or shall I be forced to run alongside you? Because this conversation is far from over. It’s no use putting me off, sir. My seventh fault isstubbornness, you know.”

He groans. “Don’t be absurd. You can’t ride dressed like that anyway. All those skirts and skirtsunderyour skirts—you won’t fit in the saddle.”

“I’m sure you can scrounge something up for me. Besides, we’re supposed to be getting married, are we not? What if Morgaine is watching? Shouldn’t we let her see how blissfully inseparable we are?”

His lips thin; he looks ready to argue it further. I put a hand on his arm, feeling his skin contract at my touch.

“After that night,” I say softly, “you owe me an explanation.”

“After that night,” he returns, “you owemeyour life.”

I only stare at him until he relents, his hands tossing in the air. “Ach, all right! But I won’t hear a single complaint about sore legs or the damp, because I’ve got a great deal of ground to cover, and I won’t be slowed down.”

Muttering about the stubbornness of city lasses, he stalks off to recruit Sylvie’s help, then goes to ready our horses. She is more than glad to hunt through the wardrobes of Ravensgate, assembling a riding kit for me.

She pulls out clothes from various drawers and armoires—riding skirts and gloves and a straw hat with a gray ribbon around the brim. When she’s done, I have to admit Sylvie has more than one way of working magic. I regard the stranger in my mirror, a well-dressed, if slightly out-of-date young woman ready for a day of upper-class sport. Washleather trousers beneath a voluminous charcoal skirt and matching habit, the straw hat, chamois gloves, and gleaming boots that, though a bit big, look as if they’ve never been worn, and even a little pocket tucked in the bodice of the habit, where a skein of thread might be kept and quickly accessed. Whatever North woman wore this dress last was a Weaver too. I tuck a bit of waxed white thread into the pocket.

We walk down the hall, toward the stairs, and Sylvie slips her hand into mine.

“Are you in love with Connie?” she asks.

I blink, startled. “What?”

“You’re going riding with him. And you two always seem to be whispering.”