Chapter Eight
At dawn, I’m startled awake by the blast of bagpipes.
The windowpanes seem nearly to rattle at the screeching sound. I dress quickly, every blasting note like a splash of shocking icy water to my nerves. The notes are so violently played that I cannot even tell what song they’re supposed to be.
Baffled, I stumble out of my room and down to the kitchen, where Mrs. MacDougal is cooking bacon and Sylvie is sitting by the fire, her legs kicking as she eats an apple.
The girl brightens when I enter. The sound is louder down here than it was upstairs.
I resist the urge to clap my hands over my ears, as if it would do any good.
“What on earth is that noise?” I ask.
“Mr. North has many hobbies,” Mrs. MacDougal says, her voice strained. “Some more regrettable than others.”
“Connie only plays his pipes when he’s really happy or in a black temper,” explains Sylvie.
After my conversation with Mr. North last night, I can easily believe which is the case this morning. Before I can stop myself, I say, “He’s not very good, is he?”
Mrs. MacDougal sighs. “He makes up for it with zeal. Best to just let him get it over with.”
She puts down breakfast, and Sylvie digs in. Grand the house may be, but it seems no one stands upon much ceremony here. I sit and wince at the racket Mr. North is making and wonder why the housekeeper keeps giving me dark looks out of the corners of her eyes.
Then she says, “So you’re off to Blackswire, then, Miss Pryor? Or should I say, Sister Rose?” Her eyes flick to the trefoil knot embroidered on my collar.
I touch my fingertips to the symbol. Perhaps I should have removed it, but I haven’t had the heart. I am still technically a Moirene sister, and wearing the symbol of my order makes me believe I will one day return to them.
“Miss Pryor is fine. And yes, I suppose I am off to the village.”
Sylvie pouts. “But you’ve only just got here.”
“Miss Pryor did not come all this way to see us,” the housekeeper reminds her.
Her husband comes in from outside, bringing a draft of cold air with him. In heavy work boots he shuffles over and sits, muttering, “No eggs today, Mrs. MacDougal. That damn racket has scared them right back up into the chickens. I’ve a mind to puncture the bag when the lad’s next away.”
Just then, the bagpipes cut off, and we all release relieved sighs.
Then the kitchen door opens again, and Conrad North limps in, clutching an enormous set of highland pipes, ruddy cheeked from the cold.
The laird’s sgian-dubh is tucked into his belt, and his black hair is untidily ruffled, making him a human counterpart to the shaggy dog who trots in at his heels.
A gust of wind blows in with them, ruffling the plaid kilt tied about Mr. North’s waist. I catch a glimpse of muscled bronze thigh and have to fight back the tide of heat that creeps up my neck.
There aren’t many kilted men running about London, but honestly, I have spent enough time assisting in the healers’ ward to have seen my share of male flesh.
I should certainly not be blushing at the barest flash of a disagreeable Scotsman’s thigh.
With a cough, I go back to my breakfast, once again thinking of that wretched storybook illustration of Jason, standing proud on his ship with his short windswept toga and his long muscular legs.
Fates. What is wrong with me?
Mr. North stops short when he sees me, as though he’d forgotten I was here. Then he grumbles something unintelligible and throws himself into a chair, his pipes taking up half the table. The petrichor and earth scent of the moors rolls off him, along with the more rustic scents of stable and horse.
“Here, Sylvie,” he grunts, taking an object from his pocket and tossing it to her.
She catches it with a shout; it is the wolf I saw him carving last night, finished and really quite lovely, one paw raised and its head low as if it’s about to pounce upon a rabbit.
“Oh!” Sylvie kisses its nose. “My little Fenrir! He’s beautiful, Connie, just the best!”
“Nothing less for my shield maiden of the north.” Conrad’s words elicit a pleased flush from his sister.
He falls upon breakfast without ceremony, shoving bacon into his mouth. While he chews, he crosses his eyes at Sylvie, who giggles. If he woke in a black temper, he seems to have exhausted it through his pipes.
“So, Rose Pryor of London,” he says, his first verbal acknowledgment of my presence this morning. “You’re still here.”
I sip my tea and pointedly do not look at him. “How is your thumb, Mr. North?”
He waggles it at me; the cut has been bandaged. “Miraculously, I have survived, even without the aid of magic. How was your book?”
“Riveting. I particularly loved the part where the faerie queen woke to find her lord was actually an ass.”
A crash sounds from the washbasin, where Mrs. MacDougal has dropped a pan. She curses under her breath and, for some reason, glares at me as though it were my fault. Sylvie is looking back and forth between me and her brother with wide eyes.
The laird leans back in his chair, tumbling his teacup in his palm as if it were red wine. His lips are slanted to one side, hinting at his dimple. Like bronzed mirrors, his eyes seem opaque, reflecting my own face back at me. “What’s the plan today, then? More snooping?”
“Well,” I begin. “I shall walk to Blackswire this morning and ask after lodging. Perhaps there is an inn . . . ?”
“Nay, there’s not an inn. But there are a few families who might put you up for a time. Mr. MacDougal, ready the cart.”
“No, please,” I quickly insert. “I prefer the walk.”
Mr. North shrugs and begins draining his tea. “Suit yourself. But you cannot go hauling your bags all the way to Blackswire. Once you find a berth, send word, and Mr. MacDougal will bring your things to you.”
“She can stay here!” Sylvie chirps. “Why not, Connie? We have a million beds and—”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say gently.
“Nay, ’tis not,” her brother growls behind his cup. “Miss Pryor has made up her mind. I do believe we are too backward and simple for such a highbrow, worldly soul as she.”
I give him an icy look, which he returns with equal coolness.
Sylvie pouts. “But—”
“I said nay, and I won’t tolerate any sass, you wee wench.”
“Numpty!”
“Harpy.”
Sylvie grins and digs her elbow into her brother’s side, and he yelps and falls backward off his chair, as if mortally wounded. Then he lets out a real cry of pain when his injured leg strikes the table.
“Honestly!” Mrs. MacDougal throws up her hands. “Barbarians! The lot of you!”
When I slip out of Mr. North’s crumbling manor ten minutes later, the moor is cast in gray fog aglow with the afterlight of dawn.
It is cold enough to freeze the blood in my veins.
Even though Mrs. MacDougal’s hot breakfast and tea warms my belly, for half a moment, I regret leaving the comfortable kitchen for this frigid air.
Saying farewell to Sylvie’s disappointed face was even more difficult.
The girl reminds me painfully of my students.
But thinking of my class reminds me that I have a mission to do, and the sooner it’s over and done, the sooner I can go home.
Once I’m far enough away from the manor that Mr. North cannot spy upon me, I sew a few warming knots into my shawl.
Though as I channel into them, I almost wish he would glimpse me through the austere windows of his library lair.
It warms me almost as much as my magic, imagining him chafing at this act of defiance.
Over the moors, eerie sounds creep and prowl: low groans that could just as well be waking ogres as wind through trees; sudden, startled crashes in the bracken by small animals; chuffs in the distance that may be cattle or horses or the disapproving grumbles of the Fates themselves for all I can tell.
I follow the drive to the road, then cut east, over the moors and out of sight of the manor.
Climb the highest northern hill, were Lachlan’s instructions. Then spy a southern bluff with three rocks like your craggy Fates jutting from its face. The gate lies halfway betwixt these and is like to be guarded, so tread with caution, little witch.
Toren’s Rise is the highest hill in the area, according to the map I stole from Mr. North’s study, and it lies north of the manor, a few hours’ walk.
Before long, the wildness of this place seeps through my skin and pricks my bones, and I find myself hurrying, breathing faster, as the sun rises and the fog melts, revealing a land far stranger and more beautiful than I could have imagined.
The moors here are jagged and broken by rock, great crags leaning out of the moss and casting long purple shadows over the bristling heather.
Winds from every corner meet here to gambol, tussle, and court, so the land seems alive with great invisible beasts.
My bonnet is tossed from my head, and my skirts wrap around my legs and flutter behind me.
Like a small ship I am driven by those winds, pulled and pushed along until I am breathless.
When I finally reach Toren’s Rise—unmistakable for its height, which soon sets my calves to complaining—the sun is three handsbreadths in the sky. My warming knots have turned to ash, but between the sunlight and the exercise, I don’t need them anymore.
A steep rise blanketed in heather takes me to the peak, where the land suddenly drops away in a craggy bluff.
Looking down into a deep, narrow ravine, I reel a bit at the height.
I am breathing hard, my lungs burning and legs aching, but every inch of me is aflame and alert.
The wind has awoken something wild in me, and before I can stop myself, I open wide and drink in the energy of this place.