Chapter Twenty-Seven
A warm light burns in the stables when I reach their doors that night. Behind me, a restless wind sweeps over the moors and carries with it the scent of snowdrops and the call of a lonely nightjar.
I stand for a moment outside, waiting for the tingling in my stomach to stop. As far as anyone else knows, Conrad is asleep in his bed, and I in mine.
This is no different from the night he first startled me in his study, or when he interrogated me in the cottage in the woods.
Except, this time, our meeting is planned, a secret I’ve carried close all day.
Dinner was tense with anticipation, as he sat at one end of the table and I at the other, Sylvie between us.
For me, the dinner hour had passed on a tightrope.
There was Conrad, glancing at me over his mutton every few minutes with a secret glint in his eye, as if to silently remind me of our later plans.
Then there was Sylvie, idly drawing spellknot patterns on the table and shooting me wicked little grins when I noticed.
I felt stretched between them, wondering when I’d say the wrong thing and spill every secret I carried.
But we made it through the meal, and Conrad had departed with a yawn, saying he’d turn in early. His last, sidelong glance had been for me, an unspoken See you soon.
For some reason, that look sent a shiver over my skin.
Now here I am, fist raised to knock, my heart already knocking against my ribs.
It’s not as if we are breaking any rules. This is his house, and he may do as he likes. Of course, the impropriety of meeting any man alone like this is obvious, but who will know? We are both independent people, fully capable of conducting ourselves with decency.
So why do I feel as if we are engaged in some great criminal act? Why are my nerves buzzing like one of the hives I found on the moor?
I remind myself I am a professional and that this is a business transaction, and nothing more.
I knock twice, to let him know I am here, then push open one of the doors. It swings silently, letting in a current of wind that rustles the hay strewn on the floor.
Conrad stands in the center of the stable, his horse Bell nudging his shoulder.
His coat discarded, he wears a white shirt beneath a brown tweed vest, still in his fitted riding trousers, his boots dusty from the stable’s hay and dirt floor.
When he sees me, he gives the gelding a scratch beneath the chin before walking over.
“Are you sure this is all right?” he asks. “I didn’t even consider that perhaps you’re tired. If you wish to go to bed—”
“Nonsense.” I set my threadkit on a three-legged stool by Ariadne’s stall.
The mare nickers, and I take a cube of sugar from my pocket and extend it on an open palm.
She plucks it with velvety lips and snorts in appreciation.
“You won’t get out of your lesson that easily.
Now, I think we should start with a simple deflection knot and work our way up to the wards. ”
“Right.” Conrad gives me a small bow. “Whatever you say. Tonight, I am not your employer but your student. Equals.”
“I beg your pardon?” I raise a brow as I open my kit. “I believe that as your teacher, we are far from equal, sir.”
“Aye.” He coughs. “Indeed. I am your humble inferior in all things, Miss Pryor.”
With a laugh, I take out all the spools from the kit and set them aside, so the box is empty, then open a compartment and pull out twelve little wooden pegs.
“Please just call me Rose. Every time someone calls me Miss Pryor, I have to check to be sure my hair has not gone gray. It makes me feel like one of my old teachers.”
“Nonsense. You are beautiful no matter what you’re called.”
I freeze, my hands full of wooden pegs, and feel my face catch fire.
Conrad coughs. “I . . . I spoke without thinking, Miss Pryor. Ach, I mean Rose. That is—not that I dinnae believe what I said. I do. Very much.” His embarrassment seems to thicken his brogue until he’s nearly unintelligible. “What are you doing now?”
“If you’re going to practice wards,” I reply in a carefully controlled tone, “it’s best to have something to ward against.”
Opening the threadkit so it forms a flat square, I begin inserting the pegs into the ring of holes set into the inner walls of the disassembled box, creating a pegboard. Conrad watches curiously, keeping his mouth firmly shut, as I twine sturdy worsted yarn around it.
As I Weave, I try to ignore the guilt pricking me from within.
If I were really trying to prepare him to defend against Lachlan’s schemes, I would show him more truth knots, as well as spells to reveal a person’s true intentions.
I would teach him how to see lies hiding behind pretty faces.
I would warn him to guard his heart, trust no one, and above all else, save his kisses and his dimples and his fitted trousers for someone who is worthy of them.
“Is everything all right?” he asks, shaking me from my spiraling thoughts.
I smooth the scowl that inadvertently crept across my face. “Yes. Of course.”
It takes nearly ten minutes to Weave the illusion knot.
Yarn winds between the wooden pegs, building in layers, forming an intricate pattern not unlike a snowflake or a Hindu mandala.
Woven with bright crimson worsted, it reminds me most of a sunburst, flames radiating outward and then spiraling back in, an infinite, mesmerizing dance of color and lines.
“You are full of wonders,” Conrad murmurs, watching my fingers work.
I sit back and shake out my hands. “Go shut that window,” I tell him, nodding to an open casement at the back of the stable. “I don’t want any of the wisps to escape.”
He does as I bid, and I take the opportunity of his absence to channel.
Just as I’d feared, the first attempt goes awry, my heart spasming and the magic lancing through me like a hot knife.
With a little gasp, I swallow a cry of pain and try again, desperate to complete the spell before he returns.
I don’t need him to see me like this—it would invite questions I don’t have ready answers to.
It works the moment he turns back from the now closed window; I feel a surge of relief as the magic rushes from my fingertips to light the worsted. The pattern flares brightly, its light faintly tinged by the red dye in the wool.
“Now,” I say, rising with two spools of white thread in hand, “defend yourself.”
Tossing him one spool, I pull thread from the other and Weave a slow cat’s cradle; he rushes to mimic my movements, managing to create his ward knot just in time—a series of bright red lights suddenly burst from the illusion spell on the pegboard.
Shaped like small fiery dragonflies, trailing sparks in their wake, the wisps dive and dart, attacking Conrad.
I know from experience that where they strike him, they’ll leave sharp stings that take a few minutes to fade.
Conrad discovers this right away, when he fails to channel quickly enough and a wisp stings his neck.
He yelps and finally lights his Weave, generating a flash of blue light that spreads like a web in front of him.
The five remaining wisps collide with it and explode in a shower of glittering sparks.
“That’s it!” I say. “Now move quickly—there are more!”
Six more times my illusion knot sends a burst of wisps into the air, and six more times Conrad manages to Weave the ward spell, each time faster and more sure of the movements.
Then the yarn on the pegboard burns away to ash, and he is left breathing harder, flushed and triumphant and looking to me with shining eyes for approval.
There are a few red marks on his neck and face where the wisps stung him, but he seems hardly to notice.
His dark hair flops over his eyes, and when he rakes it back, the collar of his shirt flexes open, revealing a plane of muscled chest.
“Fates,” I breathe, my throat suddenly knotted.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“I said, great! You did great.”
“I did, rather, didn’t I?” Looking entirely too satisfied with himself, he tosses the spool back to me. “C’mon, now. Really test me.”
Feeling a flicker of mischief, I smile sweetly and pick up my pegboard, brushing the ashes off. “If you so command.”
Minutes later, Conrad abandons his threads with a yelp and scurries into an empty stall, where he is forced to take refuge under a horse blanket as my band of enchanted broomsticks attempts to clout his ears.
When the animating knots I tied around their shafts disintegrate and they drop harmlessly onto the floor, he emerges, panting and wide-eyed. “I wasn’t ready that time!”
With a shrug, I channel into my next Weave—and the bale of hay beside me suddenly rises up and forms itself into the rough shape of a man.
It jolts forward, rushing across the wooden floor with a dry, raspy sound.
Conrad shouts and struggles out from under the blanket, lunging for his threads.
He manages to Weave another ward spell, but not before the straw man thumps him a few times, knocking him into the walls and floor.
“Mercy!” he bellows, as the straw man finally bursts apart and rains down on him. “Have mercy!”
Leaning against the wall, presenting nonchalance to hide the fact I’m on the verge of collapsing after all that channeling, I let out a laugh. “If you so command.”
“’Tis not a command,” he says, thoroughly out of breath. “’Tis a plea.”