Chapter Seven #3
The spells are wards, indeed; most of them repel physical attacks, some discourage enmity.
There are also some illusion charms to make me appear slightly taller and stronger.
The difference is so subtle no one would notice unless they were listening and watching very carefully.
But since I’ve woven the same embroidery into pretty much all my clothing, they’d never have a chance to tell the difference.
Even the ragged gown I’d worn before Lachlan replaced my wardrobe had been stiff with protective charms. I began to sew them not long after I left my aunt’s home, replacing them every few weeks when they wore away, until the crafting of them became an instinct, something I performed almost without thinking.
There has been more than one occasion in which my wards came in handy, stinging a man’s wandering hand, discouraging bands of pickpockets who shadowed me down the darker alleys.
Teaching in one of London’s poorest districts has its perils, and I suppose after all these years, I am still my aunt’s niece.
“You have experience with magic, sir?” I ask, my tone as sharp as the needle hidden in the seam of my sleeve. “From what Mrs. MacDougal told me, I’d got the impression you were not keen on the craft.”
His face darkens. “Do you think me a simple country laird? And that because I live a remote and solitary life, Miss Pryor, I must be ignorant as well?”
“Forgive me if I implied anything of the sort,” I reply, taken aback by the heat in his voice. I’d not meant to offend so deeply, but clearly, I touched some hidden nerve. “I saw you’ve some Weavers in your family tree. There was a portrait—”
“Ach, if I knew who half the people in those portraits were, or whether they were even related to me, I should count myself the most educated man in Scotland.” He waves his hand, dismissing the topic.
“So tell me, in what sort of Weaving does a charity school instruct its pupils? No great magic, I should think. Do you specialize in household spells, adept at scouring pots and dusting cobwebs away?”
I flick my hair back, outraged by his patronizing tone. “I taught magic, yes, and arithmetic and reading and history and French, if you must know. Though considering the state of your manor, sir, I think you might benefit from a few household spells.”
He scrapes the edge of his knife over the wooden wolf’s bristling hackles. “Ach. Magic is just a lazy shortcut out of honest, hard work.”
I draw a sharp, angry breath. What would he say, I wonder, if I demonstrated just how much honest, hard work it would take me to embroider a hex on his pillowcase?
Perhaps something to make him itch all through the night, or to wake with his hair twisted into a thousand impossible knots?
Lazy shortcut, indeed! I have never been so thoroughly offended in so short a time by so arrogant a man.
“I do not know what sort of Weavers you have out here in your backwater country,” I reply, my voice cool and my temper hot, a perilous combination, “but in London, where I come from, it is St. Edgitha’s healers the folk call for when their children fall ill.
It is the Telarii they send to defend our coast against the French.
It is the Weavers of the Moirai, my sisters and brothers, to whom they entrust their education.
It is magic, woven largely by women’s hands, that has knit together the ground beneath your feet, oh country laird.
Or are you so ensconced in your remoteness and solitude that you forget there is a world beyond your moors? ”
He returns my gaze with a glower of his own. He has a tiger’s amber eyes; they remind me of the bright illustrations in a book of poetry I had loved as a girl.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright . . . In what distant deeps or skies, burnt the fire of thine eyes?
I shake the words away, unsettled and unsure why.
“Tell me, Miss Pryor,” he says in a low, almost purring tone, “are all the charity-school teachers in London as proud as you?”
“If they are not, they should be. It is honest, hard work, and I have nothing to be ashamed of. I will not apologize for my position, my reputation, or my craft, not even to a laird sitting pretty in his backwater castle.”
His lips quirk with wry amusement. The expression erases some of the sternness from his face and reveals a sly dimple in his left cheek.
For a moment I forget what we are arguing about.
That wicked little smirk puts a hitch in my breath and insensibly recalls an image to my mind—an illustration from one of my childhood storybooks, of the Greek hero Jason standing at the prow of the Argo, as cocky and handsome as an artist’s pen could summon.
No. Oh, no, no, no. I will not overlook his rudeness for the sake of one Fatesdamned dimple.
“I thank you for your night’s hospitality,” I add in a strained tone, “but I plan to move on to other lodging in the morning.”
“And I thank you for carrying me home,” he returns with a short, mocking nod. “And I extend to you all the comforts my ‘backwater castle’ can offer for the night. But I must request, in the strictest terms, that you refrain from exercising your craft while you are on my property.”
“Of course. I would not dream of burdening you with my gifts. Shall I give you my threadkit to lock away until morning? Do you wish me to strip off every becharmed article of clothing I am currently wearing and toss them in your fireplace?”
He gives me a startled glance, his eyes flicking to the embroidery on my nightgown’s bodice and lingering a fair moment longer than necessary.
My cheeks grow hot as I suddenly recall I am wearing little else and bringing his attention to that fact was perhaps a foolish thing to do.
I do not know this man, nor his notions of honor. Perhaps he has none.
I run my hand over my hip, as if to smooth the gown, but really slipping a finger into a secret pocket where there is a skein of thread.
If I need it, I could Weave a stunning spell in a trice, something far more potent than the charms worked into my nightgown.
The embroidered wards curl up the seams on my ribs and meet just over my breasts in a complex knot that is meant to discourage unwanted attention and wandering eyes.
Curiously, they seem to have little effect on Mr. North.
Then he curses and looks down at his thumb, where his carving knife has slipped and drawn blood.
“Damn it all,” he grumbles, his brogue a layer thicker.
“There is nae need for such dramatics. Please stay clothed, Miss Pryor. In fact . . .” He rises and casts about a moment, then takes up a heavy coat from the back of his chair.
He extends it to me with his good hand. “Here. Take it. The halls get drafty at night.”
Releasing a short breath, I let go of my emergency thread in order to take his coat. He waits until I sweep it around my shoulders like a cape. It smells of horse and the outdoors and some other, distinctly male scent that makes me a little lightheaded. The sleeves hang down to my knees.
Well, fine. He may have some shred of honor, but that does not absolve him of his other bad qualities.
The laird wraps a kerchief around his injured thumb. “Now, is there anything further I can do for you, or are there any other rooms into which you’d like to stick your nose?”
My shoulders stiffen beneath the heavy wool coat. Perhaps I ought not to have been snooping, but his offensive nature makes it very difficult to feel guilty. “I would like a book. Perhaps reading would help me sleep.”
His eyes narrow, as if he suspects I might try to set them on fire, but he waves his injured hand at the shelves.
“Borrow what you like.” Then he turns away, looking out the window at the moors.
Taking the chance, I slip the estate map down, then grab a volume from the shelf and hide the map inside.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I say. “It’s my favorite.”
Turning, Mr. North scoffs. “Only children put any stock in faerie tales.”
Bristling, I grip the book to my chest. What would he say, I wonder, if I told him an entire host of faeries is camped out just beyond the ridge he’s gazing toward? Instead, I reply pertly, “Only fools fail to comprehend that in faerie tales often lie the greatest truths of all.”
He grunts. “And what truths might these be?”
“Truths of love,” I say softly, considering the book in my hands. “Of desperation. And of folly.”
“Ach. Well, if that’s the case, I have all I need of such truths already.”
I lift my head, struck by the melancholy in his voice, as if for a moment his gruffness has cracked to reveal something deep and old and terribly sad in him.
He is gazing out the dark window, eyes intent on a distant ridgeline as if searching for something or someone, as if he’s already forgotten I am here.
If one of my students came into the classroom with such an expression on their face, I would pull them aside and gently ask what was wrong.
But he is not one of my students. I remind myself I am angry at him, and whatever problems he has, they are none of my concern.
“Well, thank you for the book,” I say simply.
He does not turn from the window but flicks one hand in dismissal. “You are welcome to it, Miss Pryor. Do keep your threads in their kit. And please, try to refrain from snooping through my house again.”
I cannot escape his stifling study quickly enough; the books in it which had whispered to me now seem to sulk, like children forbidden from playing.
And their master, as far as I am concerned, is an arrogant, prejudiced arse. Never mind his dimpled smirk, or the graceful cleverness of his fingers as he’d carved the wolf.
I shall be glad when dawn comes, and I can leave this moldering manor and never be forced to endure another moment of its laird’s insufferable company.