Chapter Fourteen
I storm down the hallway, thinking of all the ways I’d like to hex the laird of Ravensgate for sabotaging his own sister’s magical potential. The girl’s pleas hammer at my ears as if she were hiding under my bed whispering them through the night.
Please, Rose. I want to be like you.
Mr. North’s room is at the far end of the hall. I nearly burst in, but force myself to stop and draw a few breaths.
For all I know, he sleeps in the nude.
The notion leaves me flushed, and for a moment, I forget why I am here and that I should be angry. But it takes only a heartbeat for my fury to come rushing back.
When I knock and get no reply, I decide justice is worth the risk of exposed lairds.
I open the door softly and peer in. Mr. North’s room is dark and silent, a jungle of dark furniture and a heavily curtained four-poster bed.
“Mr. North?”
I take a few hesitant steps inside, my eyes adjusting to the dark and picking out small details: a globe by the window, the spiky silhouette of his bagpipes on a chair, and a collection of seashells on the dresser by my hand. Another careful step takes me nearer to the still-made-up bed.
He is not in it.
I cast about at a loss, when a light through the window catches my eye.
Someone is walking over the moors, their lantern swinging gently. I freeze, thinking again of Sylvie’s ghost—but then the figure turns, and the light illuminates his profile.
“There you are, you bastard,” I mutter.
When I emerge from the house, I’m met by a low wind and a clear night. The darkness is only temporary; my eyes adjust quickly, and the waxing moon is bright, providing just enough light to find my way. Above, the stars are silver stitches in the sky.
I spot Mr. North a short distance away, walking not to the house, but in a wide loop around it.
He walks unhurried and limping slightly, on one of the many paths crisscrossing the heather.
Captain walks beside him, a low, dark shadow, and every few steps, Mr. North reaches down to scratch the dog’s ears.
He hears me coming, because I don’t know the paths well enough and end up crashing over the heather like a floundering sheep.
I’m forced to walk for what feels like an eternity while he watches, his free hand in his pocket and his expression obscured by the shadows cast from his lantern.
By the time I reach him, I’m breathing hard.
“Rose Pryor,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “I suppose your unnatural stealthiness does not extend to moorland?”
“Not much heather growing in London these days,” I pant. “Why are you out here so late?”
With a deep sigh, he raises his lantern, the light illuminating his frown in a wash of flickering orange light. “How have I offended you now, pray tell?”
Fury rolls through me like relentless waves beating against a stony shore.
I trace the gold-limned lines of his face, noting the weariness in his eyes.
Were we really laughing together by the fire, just hours ago?
I was a fool to feel anything toward him, anything but anger.
I let my guard down and nearly forgot what he was.
One moment of laughter does not erase the damage he has done.
“Why do you hate magic?” I demand at last.
“I beg your pardon?”
“There must be a reason besides bad family luck,” I say. “Did something happen to you?”
“Hm.” He begins walking; I trot to catch up. His course seems to more or less encircle the manor. It looms to our left, as if we are tethered to it by a long and invisible lead.
I remain silent. It’s a trick Sister Elizabeth used to play on me—waiting, eternally patient, until I couldn’t bear the quiet and confessed to whatever transgression I’d committed.
I shiver and pull my shawl tighter, looking back at the house.
All the windows are dark; it looks like a ruin from this distance.
Finally, he breaks. “I don’t hate magic.”
“Does it run in your family? Was one of your parents a Weaver?”
For a few seconds he only looks at me, then he curses. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Don’t lie to me, not about her. Magic runs in families, and you’ve no doubt seen something in my house to make you think it runs in mine, and now you’re wondering about Sylvie. What happened?”
“You never had her tested, did you?”
He turns his back to me, his hand raking his hair.
“Mrs. MacDougal told me this was a bad idea, allowing you to stay. She said your eyes were too prying and your fingers too meddling, and of course she was right.” Whirling around again, he asks, “Did Sylvie ask about your magic? Has she seen you Weaving? You promised me you wouldn’t. ”
“If she doesn’t have the ability, why does it matter?”
“Because I don’t want her involved with any part of your craft.”
My chest swells with anger, my breaths quick and short. “Is that why you’ve tried to sabotage her magic, letting it rot on the vine because you don’t like its flavor?”
“Because it is poison!” His shout echoes across the heather and fades into the starry sky.
I take a step back, regarding him with wide, horrified eyes. He seems to realize then that he’s confessed to everything, and he gives a low growl of exasperation.
“Miss Pryor—”
“So it’s true,” I whisper, my very bones curdling with disgust. “You knew she had magic, and you chose to neglect it.”
He raises his hands, curling his fingers in the air as if he wishes he could shake something. “I chose to keep her safe.”
“Safe. Safe. You haven’t kept her safe. You’ve stolen her only defense from her. Her only means of protecting herself.”
“Magic is a double-edged sword and I—”
“But it is a sword! She must learn how to wield it, or she could hurt herself again—”
“Again?” He draws in a slow breath, then releases it through tight lips. “So it’s true. She did channel.”
“And she nearly killed herself trying. If I had not got there in time—”
“If you had not been here, she would never have tried!” His snarl is half wild, and I take a step back, a splinter of fear striking me breathless.
“No! This is not my fault!” I push forward again, driving a finger to his chest. It is like prodding the side of a barn.
“She is more powerful than any Weaver I have met. She is like a dry field, waiting for the smallest spark to set her aflame. And when she burns, Mr. North, she will not be able to stop.”
He shuts his eyes and stands as still as a mountain for a long minute, breathing in and out. I watch his face as the tension slowly drains from the muscles of his cheeks. The deep furrow between his brows relaxes, and even his shoulders drop.
Fates, it worked.
I finally got through to him.
Relief flows through me, and my hand drops to my side.
“I understand your fear,” I say quietly. “I do. But you will see. Magic will protect her. It will give her purpose and—”
“Purpose?” His eyes snap open, and I recoil from the rage in them. “You know nothing of my sister’s purpose, nor of mine. You understand nothing. Magic is a curse in our family. It always has been. You just said it yourself—it nearly killed her!”
“That is not what I—”
“Mrs. MacDougal told me you went to the village. Well, didn’t they tell you?” He gives a harsh laugh. “They love to gossip about us, tell stories of the mad Norths and their string of tragedies. Did they tell you about my father?”
I don’t look away. I won’t let him distract me from the enormity of his crime. “No.”
“He was a Weaver too. And his magic led him down paths which should never be taken, and he paid for it with his life. I found his body myself, aye, out on the moors, half burnt to ash.”
His voice nearly breaks, a hint of grief stabbing through his bitterness, and I am struck momentarily speechless.
The horrifying image seizes my imagination: a younger Conrad, standing over a charred corpse .
. . “I—I’m sorry. Truly. But surely you see why this is further proof that Sylvie must learn to—”
“Miss Pryor, stop.” His tone is clad in iron. “This was a mistake. I should never have agreed to let you stay.”
“This isn’t about me!” I spread my hands wide, exasperated. “She will not stop trying! She needs to be taught how to channel safely!”
“She will stop. I will make her stop.”
He starts to turn away, but I grab his arm. “Even if you could, you’d be robbing her of her power. And when she’s older and understands that, she’ll despise you.”
The tension in his bicep is hard as rock. “Probably,” he says, his voice so soft I can barely make out the word. “But she’ll be safe.”
“Oh, you impossible, stubborn man!”
I pull away in disgust and turn back to the house.
But blinded as I am by darkness and fury, I trip over a rise and crash into the heather, scraping my arms and face.
The hill is steep, plunging into shadow, and I roll hard until, with a startled shout, I land in one of the cold little ponds that dot the moors.
The water is only waist deep, but I flounder for footing, sputtering.
Captain barks and races up and down the bank in a panic.
Mr. North is there at once, wading into the water toward me, his lantern abandoned on the shore. Silver moonlight ripples around him, and he peels off his coat and tosses it aside to free his arms. I grab hold of his hand to steady myself, cursing.
“What is it you always say to me, Miss Pryor?” he growls irritably. “Watch your language? Fates, you curse like a sailor.”
I tremble with anger. “Are you going to just stand there, or will you help me out?”
“Stop wriggling, and I might! You’re only making us both sink deeper, you mad creature.”
“I can’t help it! My shoe is stuck in the mud. Which is fortunate for you, or I’d be clobbering you with it!”