Page 92 of The Moorwitch

A warm light burns in the stables when I reach their doors that night. Behind me, a restless wind sweeps over the moors and carries with it the scent of snowdrops and the call of a lonely nightjar.

I stand for a moment outside, waiting for the tingling in my stomach to stop. As far as anyone else knows, Conrad is asleep in his bed, and I in mine.

This is no different from the night he first startled me in his study, or when he interrogated me in the cottage in the woods. Except, this time, our meeting is planned, a secret I’ve carried close all day. Dinner was tense with anticipation, as he sat at one end of the table and I at the other, Sylvie between us.

For me, the dinner hour had passed on a tightrope. There was Conrad, glancing at me over his mutton every few minutes with a secret glint in his eye, as if to silently remind me of our later plans. Then there was Sylvie, idly drawing spellknot patterns on the table and shooting me wicked little grins when I noticed. I felt stretched between them, wondering when I’d say the wrong thing and spill every secret I carried.

But we made it through the meal, and Conrad had departed with a yawn, saying he’d turn in early. His last, sidelong glance had been for me, an unspokenSee you soon.

For some reason, that look sent a shiver over my skin.

Now here I am, fist raised to knock, my heart already knocking against my ribs.

It’s not as if we are breaking any rules. This is his house, and he may do as he likes. Of course, the impropriety of meeting any man alone like this is obvious, but who will know? We are both independent people, fully capable of conducting ourselves with decency.

So why do I feel as if we are engaged in some great criminal act? Why are my nerves buzzing like one of the hives I found on the moor?

I remind myself I am a professional and that this is a business transaction, and nothing more.

I knock twice, to let him know I am here, then push open one of the doors. It swings silently, letting in a current of wind that rustles the hay strewn on the floor.

Conrad stands in the center of the stable, his horse Bell nudging his shoulder. His coat discarded, he wears a white shirt beneath a brown tweed vest, still in his fitted riding trousers, his boots dusty from the stable’s hay and dirt floor. When he sees me, he gives the gelding a scratch beneath the chin before walking over.

“Are you sure this is all right?” he asks. “I didn’t even consider that perhaps you’re tired. If you wish to go to bed—”

“Nonsense.” I set my threadkit on a three-legged stool by Ariadne’s stall. The mare nickers, and I take a cube of sugar from my pocket and extend it on an open palm. She plucks it with velvety lips and snorts in appreciation. “You won’t get out of your lesson that easily. Now, I think we should start with a simple deflection knot and work our way up to the wards.”

“Right.” Conrad gives me a small bow. “Whatever you say. Tonight, I am not your employer but your student. Equals.”

“I beg your pardon?” I raise a brow as I open my kit. “I believe that as your teacher, we arefarfrom equal, sir.”

“Aye.” He coughs. “Indeed. I am your humble inferior in all things, Miss Pryor.”

With a laugh, I take out all the spools from the kit and set them aside, so the box is empty, then open a compartment and pull out twelve little wooden pegs. “Please just call me Rose. Every time someone calls meMiss Pryor, I have to check to be sure my hair has not gone gray. It makes me feel like one of my old teachers.”

“Nonsense. You are beautiful no matter what you’re called.”

I freeze, my hands full of wooden pegs, and feel my face catch fire.

Conrad coughs. “I ... I spoke without thinking, Miss Pryor. Ach, I meanRose. That is—not that I dinnae believe what I said. I do. Very much.” His embarrassment seems to thicken his brogue until he’s nearly unintelligible. “What are you doing now?”

“If you’re going to practice wards,” I reply in a carefully controlled tone, “it’s best to have something to wardagainst.”

Opening the threadkit so it forms a flat square, I begin inserting the pegs into the ring of holes set into the inner walls of the disassembled box, creating a pegboard. Conrad watches curiously, keeping his mouth firmly shut, as I twine sturdy worsted yarn around it.

As I Weave, I try to ignore the guilt pricking me from within. If I were really trying to prepare him to defend against Lachlan’s schemes, I would show him more truth knots, as well as spells to reveal a person’s true intentions. I would teach him how to see lies hiding behind pretty faces. I would warn him to guard his heart, trust no one, and above all else, save his kisses and his dimples and his fitted trousers for someone who is worthy of them.

“Is everything all right?” he asks, shaking me from my spiraling thoughts.

I smooth the scowl that inadvertently crept across my face. “Yes. Of course.”

It takes nearly ten minutes to Weave the illusion knot. Yarn winds between the wooden pegs, building in layers, forming an intricate pattern not unlike a snowflake or a Hindu mandala. Woven with bright crimson worsted, it reminds me most of a sunburst, flames radiatingoutward and then spiraling back in, an infinite, mesmerizing dance of color and lines.

“You are full of wonders,” Conrad murmurs, watching my fingers work.

I sit back and shake out my hands. “Go shut that window,” I tell him, nodding to an open casement at the back of the stable. “I don’t want any of the wisps to escape.”

He does as I bid, and I take the opportunity of his absence to channel. Just as I’d feared, the first attempt goes awry, my heart spasming and the magic lancing through me like a hot knife. With a little gasp, I swallow a cry of pain and try again, desperate to complete the spell before he returns. I don’t need him to see me like this—it would invite questions I don’t have ready answers to.