Page 94 of The Moorwitch

“You’re not serious.”

He shrugs helplessly.

I reach into my sleeve, but it’s empty. I left my spare thread atop my threadkit and abandoned all of that when we darted into the stall, so there’s no chance of Weaving a spell to assist Mr. MacDougal in falling asleep.

I glance at Conrad, at the door, then pinch my lips together and sit deeper into the hay. He sits beside me, grinning apologetically.

“I’m sure he’ll nod off soon,” he says.

If we had stopped to think and simply let Mr. MacDougal find us Weaving, he might have thought it perfectly innocent. But by losing our heads and hiding, we’ve doubled the suspicious nature of our meeting.

Bell nudges me, asking for sugar. I feed him the last cube and prop my head in my hand. I drum my fingers against my cheek and try to ignore how Conrad’s shoulder is pressed against mine, and how every time he shifts, his thigh bumps against my knee.

“Once,” I whisper, desperate for some distraction, “I spent two whole hours inside a desk cabinet.”

Conrad slowly looks at me. “I ... beg your pardon?”

I shrug. “It was life or death, or so I thought at the time. I was only seven years old. I’d stolen a book of magic from my uncle’s library, but my aunt came into the room, and I was so frightened and out of my wits that my first thought was to hide in the desk. She sat the whole afternoon in there, muttering to her cat and complaining about the strength of her tea.”

He leans forward and looks at me over his shoulder, his arms folded over his knees. “I never asked you about your childhood.”

I stare at Bell’s silky blond tail, wondering how the horse would react if I plucked a hair to Weave with.

“There isn’t much to tell. My aunt and I did not exactly get on. My uncle caught an illness from me, and though I recovered, he soon died, and she never forgave me for it. I thought she might discard me entirely the night I learned I could Weave.”

“How did you learn it?”

“I was reading a book of spells I’d found in my uncle’s library, shortly after he’d died, and I thought I’d try one. I don’t think I ever actually expected it to work, but there it was—a little butterfly made of ice, conjured by twisting a few threads into the right shape.” I open my palm, lost in the memory. It occurs to me I’ve never told anyone this story. It’s not like me, to go prattling on about the more painful parts of my past. But then ... perhaps that is because I’ve never had anyone so eager to listen. Conrad watches me closely, his head cocked, waiting for more.

“It was so beautiful,” I murmur, “hovering over my hands, sparkling like crystal. I thought if my aunt saw it, she’d be pleased. She was no Weaver, but my uncle had been, and I thought it might make her like me to know we shared the gift. But I was wrong, of course. I think it made her hate me more. She forbade me from having anything to do with magic.”

“Ah.” Conrad lets out a long, thin breath, his head falling back against the stall door. “So that’s it.”

“That’s what?”

He looks down at his hands, his fingers twisting a piece of straw. “I wondered why you despised me from the moment we met. It’s because I remind you of her, isn’t it? Of course I do. You must think me a beast.”

“I ... well, at first, yes.” The admission makes my ears burn. “But you’re not like her. Not at all. She believed in ... firm punishments, for one thing.” I look down at my hands, trying to hide the ugly truths of my past from him. But then I feel his fingers, light as silk, on my jaw, with his thumb just brushing the scar on my throat.

I freeze, my gaze fixing upon his, wondering if he can feel my pulse quicken in my neck.

“Did she give you this?” he whispers, his eyes fire trapped in amber glass.

My mouth parts, breathless, and his thumb traces its way up my neck to follow the curve of my jaw, as his gaze tears at me like the northern wind I saw him conjure, threatening to strip away every secret in my body. My treacherous mind flashes back to our night in Elfhame, of his mouth warm on mine, our hands entwined.

No, no, no,I want to scream at him.You don’t want this. You don’t know what I am!

My skin heats, a chill running from my scalp to my navel. I sit as one transfixed, his thumb working a magic unlike anything I learned in school.

But no; that is not my imagination—the air is moving, stirring the hay around us. Feverish heat rolls off Conrad, who I realize is drawing energy in by the pail. I canfeelit, like water flowing just beneath the floor, rushing toward him. The horses feel it too. Bell stamps and snorts, and across the stable, Ariadne whinnies.

“Conrad,” I whisper, placing my hand on his wrist. Is he even aware of what he is doing?

His eyes burn. “What happened to you, Rose? Did she hurt you?”

I’m on my knees now. I pluck a hair from Bell’s tail and begin to Weave a wind knot, something for him to pour all that energy into before it—or he—combusts. Needles of straw are spiraling higher,caught up in the power rolling off Conrad, his magic uncontrolled and dangerously volatile. If the lantern threw a spark, it would catch the air like a flash of lightning and set all this hay on fire. Unspent magic simmers all around us, the air boiling and taut, ready to explode.

My eyes begin to burn; tears fall before I can stop them.