Page 96 of The Moorwitch

But other times, he grows dark, and I come upon him gazing out a window, clenching the sill as if he might break through and take to the sky, a wild, dark raven like the ones carved on his front doors. He yearns to escape, that much is clear. Sylvie thinks this place a prison, but Conradknowsit is.

In the evenings, after Sylvie falls asleep, we sneak to the stable and I teach him wards, defense spells, blinding hexes, anything which might help him protect his family. But half the time we simply end up sitting on bales of hay, talking. He asks me to tell him about London, and I describe the bustle of the markets, the bells of the Westminster School, the ragged children of the alleys and gutters. He listens as ifI were spinning tales of gods, not of the poor and common people I grew up around, his eyes hungry for the outside world. I even tell him stories of my aunt and my punishing school days, though I soften the details. I don’t want a repeat of the episode in the stable, with Conrad channeling uncontrollably.

He doesn’t touch me again like he did that night. Perhaps this is because I am very careful to keep distance between us—no more squeezing into tight places together, no more physical contact than is strictly necessary for the sake of our lessons. Every time I am tempted to pick a piece of straw out of his hair or take hold of his hands to correct his cat’s cradle, I think of Lachlan’s sly laughter, and I resist. Every time I feel Conrad’s eyes are lingering too long on mine, I look away. When he finishes a particularly demanding lesson, with his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his chest and his cheeks dimpling with proud laughter, I close my eyes and pray to the Fates for strength.

Then again, perhaps I only imagined the heat in his eyes and the softness of his fingers on my skin during that first lesson, and there was never anything to guard against in the first place. Perhaps he really does see me as nothing more than a temporary guest with some useful knowledge to share before we part ways for all eternity. Perhaps when he told me that kiss in Elfhame was purely for show, he was telling the truth.

But I cannot deny that something has changed in him since that night. He is easier around me, almost comfortable. He thinks all is open between us, that I know his deepest secrets and he knows mine. I play along, letting him think so, unable to fathom how I could possibly break it to him that I am a tool of his father’s murderer.

And despite my best efforts to remain aloof, I find myself lulled, pulled into this quiet, eccentric world he and Sylvie have built, a world of playacting and horses and books and sudden, wild stampedes down the halls in their stockings. But when his mood turns, it is like a thunderstorm rolling across a clear sky, darkening all in his shadow.Even Sylvie cannot reach him then, and he locks himself in his study and broods.

When he goes away for an afternoon here and there, to patrol the border or, I assume, to visit Morgaine, Sylvie sneaks in, and I tell her the difference between a chain stitch and a close stitch, and she makes little samplers. If Conrad were to discover us like this, I know he’d throw me out at once. There is one line he will allow no one to cross, and that is anything which might endanger Sylvie. She seems to understand the risk we take and is very discreet with her lessons. She listens like a sponge, soaking up every word, and though her stitches are messy and her threads tangled, I can see her improving by bounds day by day.

The sound of Conrad’s bagpipes goes on longer than usual this morning, and no amount of pillows will block them out.

Finally, I hurl myself out of bed, yank my shawl over my clothes, and go downstairs. Sylvie and the MacDougals have emerged from their rooms and gathered atop the foyer steps, blinking and hollow-eyed, even Sylvie looking irritated.

“He’s havingfeelingsagain,” she groans.

Mrs. MacDougal presses her fingertips to her temples and releases a small whimper. “It’s never got this bad before.” Then she glares at me as if it were allmyfault.

“That’s it!” I cry. “I can’t take another minute of that bedlam he callsmusic.”

No one stops me as I throw open the front doors and stalk over the drive. Conrad stands with his back to the manor, his pipes blasting to the sky like a bloody rooster crowing at the sun. He doesn’t hear me approach, so he is doubly startled when I wrench the bagpipes right out of his hands.

“Rose Pryor!” he cries. “You cannot just snatch a man’s pipes away, you harpy!”

“I can, I did, and I will again, if you don’t let up!”

“Give those back, you madwoman!” He lunges at me, and I dance out of reach, the pipes clacking in a way that makes the color drain from his face.

I turn and walk briskly back to the house, still clutching his pipes. He follows with a stream of curses. Brushing by the MacDougals, Sylvie cackling in the doorway, I storm upstairs into my room and slam the door shut.

Moments later, I hear a timid knock. “Rose.”

“Go away!”

“Rose.Please.”

I sigh and go to the door, to find Conrad standing like a wounded dog. The top of his head rests on the doorway, and he looks up at me through the dark fringe of his eyelashes. He is wearing a sprig of juniper in his collar today, just like the one he wore the night of the faerie revel.

“Rose. I’m sorry. I did not mean to make you cross with me. Please, give them back.”

I glance across the room at the great clock on the wall, its hands inexorably creeping toward tomorrow’s midnight, my final deadline. Mouth dry and stomach clenching, I turn back to Conrad.

There is one last resort left to me, a terrible one, and I feel my conscience squirm as I reply, “I’ll give them back, if you take me out riding again, after I’ve finished Sylvie’s lessons. I feel I’ve been stuck indoors for days.”

His face brightens. “You’ve a deal, Miss Pryor.”

That afternoon, we ride far and wide over the moors, beneath a sky thickening with clouds. It will rain soon, but we are determined to make the most of the fair weather we have left. The air is springlike, warm enough that I didn’t need my shawl.

Conrad talks of Elfhame, and in any other circumstance, his tales of wild revels and faerie-court intrigues would hold me fully enthralled.But I can only half listen, distracted as I am by the gnawing guilt in my belly. I am glad for my bonnet, which allows me to look slightly away whenever he glances at me, the brim obscuring the treachery in my gaze. I left my threadkit behind for once but carry several spools in my pockets. The borrowed riding clothes are sewn with many such hiding places, and I keep one hand wrapped around a skein of black silk thread, trying to work up the nerve to use it.

After an hour, we stop atop Toren’s Rise to rest and eat the sandwiches Mrs. MacDougal packed in Bell’s saddlebags. The moors spread magnificently below us, dramatically cast in pools of light and shadow by the clouds and late-afternoon sun.

Conrad stands at the very edge of the jutting rock and gazes out at the landscape, dressed in a loose white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and tight riding breeches tucked into his boots. The wind breaks over the bluff like a wave, ruffling his shirt and hair. He’s just finished telling me another story of faerie exploits, this one involving two angry fae dueling one another with spoons, after Conrad convinced them that was how disputes were settled in the human world.

“I would like to see it again,” I say.