Page 95 of The Moorwitch

“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper. “She’s far away now. You’re losing control. You have to stop! Quick—take this!”

I thrust the wind knot into his hand, and he gasps, channeling all the energy at once.

A mighty gust of wind rushes through the stable. The lantern sputters out as the doors crash open with a bang. Mr. MacDougal curses and runs to them, and I take the opportunity to scramble out of the hay and over the stall door, scooping up my threadkit. Conrad follows, and we dart to the rear door while Mr. MacDougal struggles to shut out the gale. Now it is not Conrad’s wind which pushes the front doors open, but the wind of the moors, wild and angry, the howling vanguard of a coming storm.

I stumble into the night, my hair coming unbound in the wind. I cannot even see the house for the leaves and debris blowing about. Conrad puts his hand on my back, turning me toward it, and I follow his guidance until we reach the kitchen door. Behind us, lightning splits the sky. Thunder growls on the horizon.

We burst through, and Conrad throws himself against the door, latching it with a wooden bar to keep the wind out. We both breathe hard, disheveled and covered in straw.

Mrs. MacDougal is standing over the stove with a cup in hand, making herself a late-night tea.

She blinks at us as the kettle begins to scream behind her. But she doesn’t turn. She watches Conrad and me, her eyes wide.

I stand frozen in place, mortified, extremely aware of how we look and what she must think we were up to. But Conrad simply greets her with a nod, speaking over the howl of the kettle. “Mrs. MacDougal. Big storm coming in.”

Thunder breaks again, and I flinch. Mrs. MacDougal’s eyes shift to me, her expression unchanging.

Conrad straightens his waistcoat and bows to me. “Well, then. Good night, Miss Pryor. Thank you for the lesson.”

He waits so that I can leave first, and I can only think it is because he doesn’t want to leave me to face the housekeeper alone. I scurry away as quick as I can, feeling Mrs. MacDougal’s eyes follow me all the way out; she doesn’t remove the kettle until I am out of sight. My blood is pumping fast. It’s as if a piece of the storm lodged in my lungs and is raging in the cavity of my chest.

I pause on the stairs, holding a hand to my fluttering stomach.

Whathappenedin that stable?

One minute, everything was going well enough. I was teaching, he was learning, we were making innocent scholastic progress ... and the next minute, he was putting his fingers on my neck while I poured out my deepest secrets. I made one mention of my aunt’s abuse, and he began drawing in magic as if he were about to charge into battle.

I knew agreeing to teach him would be a mistake.

Just as I know I am too weak to put a stop to it.

I can practically hear Lachlan’s sly laughter dancing on the wind.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bagpipes awaken me at dawn.

Again.

Upon hearing the first keening blast, I groan and pull my pillow over my head, cursing Conrad North.

It has been two weeks since my last meeting with Lachlan, two weeks since Conrad agreed to a fortnight’s deadline for my departure from Ravensgate.

Tomorrow is my final chance. The day after that, I will turn twenty-one.

I am supposed to have the Dwirra branch for Lachlan by tomorrow night, but I’ve come no closer to finding the portal spell. The deadline draws tight around my neck, and panic lurks like a kraken beneath my bed, waiting to devour me the moment I set foot on the floor. I have no idea what I will do, but I know I must act soon. Today, if possible. I must find a way into Elfhame or lose my magic forever.

I haven’t visited Lachlan again. With only two uses left, the tapestry is too precious a tool to use unless necessary. It is a relief not to see the faerie, but every now and again, a strawberry will appear on my windowsill, a reminder that he is waiting. How it gets there, I have no idea.

Conrad has said nothing of my leaving Ravensgate. I’m almost inclined to believe he’d forgotten our deal. It doesn’t seem to matter much anyway; one way or another, my time at Ravensgate will end tomorrow. Either I’ll have acquired the Dwirra branch or not. Either I’ll have saved my magic or not. No matter which outcome, I’ll have no more reason to stay here.

Desperation makes a knot of my stomach.

But Fates, a body cannotthinkwith that Fatesdamned noise rattling the windows! Conrad is not so much playing the bagpipes as he is murdering them. And for the past two weeks, he’s begun every single morning like this, startling us all awake with a dreadful racket. Every note is an assault upon the eardrums, sharpened by the unbridled zeal with which they are played.

He only plays his pipes when he’s in a very good mood or a black temper,Sylvie had told me.

Unluckily for the rest of us, the laird’s moods swing without much warning from black piques to bright bursts of energy in which he and Sylvie race about the house, roaring and stamping and sliding down banisters. On these days, Mrs. MacDougal fusses and huffs and tells Conrad to mind his age. But Sylvie comes fully alive with him, her eyes warm and adoring, her laughs tumbling up and down the halls. It is easy to tell she worships him utterly.