Chapter Ten #2
Mr. North sighs. “Sylvie . . .”
“I know she’s only here for a short time,” Sylvie presses. “But I can learn quickly! I’ll practice my French every day, and I’ll even do extra conjugations! Maybe Miss Pryor can help me understand that awful arithmetic you can’t seem to explain properly, Connie—”
“Multiplication,” he says in a strained voice. “It’s called multiplication, and as I told you before, if you just imagine a bunch of wee boxes in your head and fill those boxes with equal amounts of apples—”
“I tried that!” she cries. “But the apples keep spilling out and rolling around in my skull!” She cocks her head to the side, eyeing Thistle.
“Maybe if we tried the sheep method instead? Mr. MacDougal says they multiply as easy as rabbits. How do sheep and rabbits do it, then? Surely it’s not that different for humans? ”
I bite back a laugh. “Hm, yes, Mr. North. How do the sheep and rabbits multiply?”
Mr. North gives a long, rumbling sigh as he gives another tug on the lambing rope.
Thistle strains, and all conversation pauses as I console the ewe and try to hold her head still as Mr. North works on freeing the lamb trapped inside her.
Sylvie hovers about with bored impatience, presumably having witnessed this particular miracle of life before.
After a moment, Thistle relaxes again with a weary chuff of air, and I give her a soft pat.
The lamb is still not out, despite the poor ewe’s heroic efforts.
I glance at my threadkit, thinking of at least a half dozen spells that would relieve the creature’s suffering if her bloody-minded master would just overcome his bloody-minded prejudice against magic. Honestly!
“Aye,” Mr. North says gruffly. “So perhaps not all my teaching methods are successful.”
Sylvie squeals, spinning a full circle. “Is that a yes, Connie? Can Miss Pryor stay with us? Can she be my governess? Please, Connie—”
“Hush!” he interrupts. “Here it comes!”
The sheep tenses once more, then begins to jerk.
“Hold her!” Mr. North orders. “Miss Pryor, pay attention!”
My heart beating wildly, I wrap my arms around the ewe and bear down on her while Mr. North pulls at the lamb. Sylvie goes still, her hands clasped at her chest and eyes wide.
“C’mon, Thistle,” the laird murmurs. “C’mon, lassie . . . there!”
All at once, the lamb slides free of its mother with a wet, sickening slurp, then lies in a still heap.
I release the ewe with a gasp and stare breathlessly as Mr. North wipes away the sticky substances from the lamb’s nose and mouth.
He then drags the limp little creature to Thistle’s nose, where it lies unmoving. Unbreathing.
“Is it . . . ?” I reach for my threadkit. Damn the man, if I can save the lamb’s life with a bit of magic, I will do it.
“Let it be,” he commands.
“But—”
“I said, let it be.”
I bite my tongue, fingers twitching.
A moment later, the lamb draws a shuddering breath, and Thistle nuzzles its small head.
“Ah!” Sylvie cries. “You did it, Connie!”
“Aye, with some help.” Mr. North glances at me as he pulls off his glove. “Come, Miss Pryor. Let ma and bairn get to know one another. Our job is done.”
Sylvie flings her arms wide. “I shall call her—”
“Him,” corrects her brother.
“I shall call him . . . Apollo!”
“A fine name,” Mr. North says.
“I . . . I just birthed a lamb,” I whisper.
“Well.” He raises an eyebrow. “You helped. Sort of. You dinnae pass out, at any rate, and for a moment there I did have my doubts . . .” He tosses a dirty cloth at me. “Now do clean yourself up. You’re absolutely filthy.”
I look down at my dirty skirts and muddy hands while he chuckles to himself.
Honestly, the gall of the man!
Mr. North shuts the stall door, and we lean over it, watching the ewe and lamb grow acquainted. Thistle licks her babe clean, and soon little Apollo is hobbling about on his spindly legs, searching for the teat.
“I am not depriving her of an education,” Mr. North says at last. “I have taught her as best I can.”
In the heady afterglow of the lamb’s birth, it takes me a moment to remember the thread of our conversation.
I lift my eyes to his and see him watching the lamb.
A thin seam of worry is stitched vertically between his brows, making him seem older and wearier than I’d first taken him for.
His sweat-damp hair clings to the back of his neck and temples, but over his forehead, it sticks upward where he’d pushed at it with his forearm.
I feel the sudden, irrational urge to smooth it back.
I suppress the mad notion with a flex of my hand, turning my eyes back on the lamb.
I think of Mr. North’s rigid prejudice and unyielding mistrust of my magic. Of me. He would not even let me use my threads to comfort a distressed animal. My pride balks at the thought of taking another moment’s hospitality from the likes of such a disagreeable man.
But then I think of Sylvie surrounded by those horrid children.
I think of myself, deprived of magic and education as a girl, desperate to be free of the one person who was supposed to protect and nurture me.
“I would be willing to instruct Sylvie,” I say slowly, “in exchange for room and board for the duration of my stay in Blackswire.”
Sylvie crows, flinging herself around her brother in a fierce hug, then skipping away out the door. “It’s settled then! I must go tell Mrs. MacDougal!”
She’s gone in moments, and when I turn back around, Mr. North is facing me squarely, one arm propped on the stall door. He leans very near, so that I can smell the hay stuck to the coarse wool of his jacket. His dark amber eyes bore into mine.
“You can stay,” he says softly. “It may be a governess will do Sylvie some good. And you are only temporary, after all, as you await your employer’s arrival.
But mark me, I am bringing you on as a teacher, not a Weaver.
If I even suspect that you’ve channeled in my house or breathed a word of magic instruction to my sister, I will toss you out on your pretty arse. ”
I suck in a breath of indignation, my cheeks flushing with heat. “Language, my lord.” If he were one of my pupils, I’d take him by the ear for a scolding.
“As I told you.” He pulls back, and the air around me cools. “I’m no noble. Only a country landowner, and a guardian who takes his duties very seriously. My concern has always been, and will always be, that child’s safety.”
“I assure you,” I reply icily, “that her safety, and any child’s safety, is of paramount importance to me too.”
“Then you agree to my terms?” He sticks out his hand. The same one that a short time ago was shoved inside a sheep’s innards. Gloved, but still.
After a moment’s hesitation, I take it. His grip is warm and firm, engulfing mine against a palm as calloused as any farmhand’s.
He holds my hand for a few heartbeats, his eyes studying my face, as if searching for any sign of deception.
Insensibly, I am put in mind of Lachlan’s cold, ageless hands, and the other bargain I struck years ago.
But this does not feel the same. I am not a frightened little girl, but a woman of resolute mind, with magic in my fingertips. I will endure this unsufferable laird for as long as it takes to find the way into Elfhame. Then I will bring Lachlan his branch and bid Conrad North farewell for all time.
And then, at last, I will finally be free to go home to my classroom, where I belong.
Mrs. MacDougal, her lips pursed in disapproval, helps me settle back into the guest room where I’d spent the previous night. I can feel her suspicion rolling off her like an icy wind and do my best to be cheerful and helpful. It does not thaw her regard of me.
I can only breathe easily again when she leaves, shutting my door behind her.
Alone in my room, my hand clutching the letter in my pocket, I make sure my door is locked before taking out one of my valises from the wardrobe.
It’s two days before I’m supposed to report back to Lachlan, but after what I found in the cottage, I can’t wait that long.
I need to know what happened to Fiona, and I know Lachlan has the answers.
I told Mrs. MacDougal I needed to rest after my walk to town and back this morning, and she seemed relieved to leave me to my room for the afternoon.
Opening the valise, I pull out the large tapestry Lachlan acquired from the Telarii Guild, holding my breath as I do. It unrolls with a rustle, heavy as a carpet, thumping on the floorboards.
The tapestry is magnificent, perhaps the most expensive thing my hands have ever touched. It is one of a matched set, and the twin is with Lachlan in the castle.
Pushing a chair to the window to stand upon, I hang it from the curtain rods and then step back to drink it in.
The pattern is elaborate, worked in vibrant crimson, deep cerulean, ocher, ecru, and bursts of yellow gold, all winding in a spiraling starburst that reminds me of the pattern I first wove to summon Lachlan into my uncle’s study.
The threads are expertly woven, and it must have taken years to complete, which tells me this plan of Lachlan’s has been some time in the making.
I pull up the lower corner of the tapestry to inspect the back, where the threads are rough and bundled, showing the depth of the craftsmanship.
The ends of the threads are frayed and tangled together like the shaggy hide of one of the highland cattle Sylvie and I passed on the road.
I run my hands over it and feel the strength of the weft beneath, and within it, the hum of enormous magic.
The tapestry practically simmers with energy.
I marvel as long as I can, before remembering I should get this over with before Mrs. MacDougal calls me for dinner.
Reaching out, I put a hand on the tapestry and let out a long, slow breath. Dread and hesitation mix in my belly, but my skin is alive with eager curiosity.
Telepestry is one of the greater arts of Weaving; teleportation through tapestry is extremely expensive and thus quite rare.
I cannot think of anyone I know who ever attempted it.
And the threads are limited in use, as all threads are.
Lachlan told me this tapestry had perhaps a half dozen uses in it before it would turn to ash.
Looking at the artistry of the Weave, I feel a wistful pang that it should ever be reduced to such.
Using the tapestry requires no channeling on my part; I wouldn’t have the strength to fill it even without my old vowknot strangling my power.
No, this tapestry would have called for multiple master Weavers pouring energy into it over the course of many days.
Now it is fully charged and humming. When I close my eyes, I can hear it like the muffled sound of a beehive.
Grand magic indeed, Lachlan had called it only yesterday. It feels like a month ago now.
As an afterthought, I cross the room and rummage through the items on the bureau, settling on an iron snuffer. I tie it beneath my overskirt, hiding it in the folds of my dress. It knocks against my thigh as I return to the tapestry, feeling slightly more protected.
There is one long, braided thread hanging from the center of the pattern, and I take firm hold of it. Then, with a little exhalation, I step forward, pushing into the Weave.
The tightly woven threads part between my hands reluctantly, as if reality were pushing back against this intrusion into its laws, insisting such magic should not be possible.
But I push through anyway, wrenching threads apart as if they were vines, struggling to pass between them.
Then I am through, into what seems like another world—another reality—entirely.
And the sight that greets me there is dizzying.