Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
Straw sticks out of his hair, and half the buttons on his shirt are undone.
But for all his dishevelment, he looks to me in that moment as bright as a sunrise.
His smile hides no secrets, his laugh unfettered by weariness.
This, I think, is who Conrad was meant to be, before he was ever chained to his duties to Elfhame.
He was meant for breathless horse races over a sunbathed moor, for hearty rowing on the Thames with a dozen other bright and ruddy boys, for raucous nights in the pubs with an ale in his hand and a song on his lips.
He was never meant to be shut away in a moldering mansion, away from the world.
His life is a shadow of what it might have been, as he is a shadow of himself.
This Conrad, the one before me now, is one that must be stowed always in the back of a closet, like a costume worn once a year, while the grimmer, older Conrad must bear the yoke of the Gatekeeper of Elfhame, with so much suspicion in his heart he has no room for mirth.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been staring for too long, while my frown deepened and my brow furrowed.
Smoothing my features, I smile and say, “I think you’re ready for the bigger wards now.”
He brightens, but then his smile drops away.
“Do you hear that?” he whispers.
Footsteps. Right outside the stable door.
“Sylvie?” I ask.
“Quick—hide!”
He points to Bell’s stall. Pulling open the door, he lets me go in first, then he blows out the lantern and shuts the stall behind us—just as the stable door swings open and someone with heavy footsteps plods in.
Conrad and I duck into a pile of hay, with Bell snorting over our heads. Breathing in hay dust, I hold back a sneeze, gripping Conrad’s arm so tightly he winces.
Conrad lifts his head a bit, then ducks down again. “’Tis only Mr. MacDougal. He must have argued with his wife and got himself kicked out again.”
Mr. MacDougal lights the lantern Conrad just extinguished and begins shuffling around, muttering to himself. He fiddles with the lantern, sighs, and then the stable fills with the smell of sweet pipe tobacco. Something heavy scrapes along the floor, and Mr. MacDougal grunts.
“He’s pulling out a cot,” Conrad whispers, rubbing his face with an expression of weary disbelief. “We’re trapped until he falls asleep.”
“You’re not serious.”
He shrugs helplessly.
I reach into my sleeve, but it’s empty. I left my spare thread atop my threadkit and abandoned all of that when we darted into the stall, so there’s no chance of Weaving a spell to assist Mr. MacDougal in falling asleep.
I glance at Conrad, at the door, then pinch my lips together and sit deeper into the hay. He sits beside me, grinning apologetically.
“I’m sure he’ll nod off soon,” he says.
If we had stopped to think and simply let Mr. MacDougal find us Weaving, he might have thought it perfectly innocent. But by losing our heads and hiding, we’ve doubled the suspicious nature of our meeting.
Bell nudges me, asking for sugar. I feed him the last cube and prop my head in my hand. I drum my fingers against my cheek and try to ignore how Conrad’s shoulder is pressed against mine, and how every time he shifts, his thigh bumps against my knee.
“Once,” I whisper, desperate for some distraction, “I spent two whole hours inside a desk cabinet.”
Conrad slowly looks at me. “I . . . beg your pardon?”
I shrug. “It was life or death, or so I thought at the time. I was only seven years old. I’d stolen a book of magic from my uncle’s library, but my aunt came into the room, and I was so frightened and out of my wits that my first thought was to hide in the desk.
She sat the whole afternoon in there, muttering to her cat and complaining about the strength of her tea. ”
He leans forward and looks at me over his shoulder, his arms folded over his knees. “I never asked you about your childhood.”
I stare at Bell’s silky blond tail, wondering how the horse would react if I plucked a hair to Weave with.
“There isn’t much to tell. My aunt and I did not exactly get on. My uncle caught an illness from me, and though I recovered, he soon died, and she never forgave me for it. I thought she might discard me entirely the night I learned I could Weave.”
“How did you learn it?”
“I was reading a book of spells I’d found in my uncle’s library, shortly after he’d died, and I thought I’d try one.
I don’t think I ever actually expected it to work, but there it was—a little butterfly made of ice, conjured by twisting a few threads into the right shape.
” I open my palm, lost in the memory. It occurs to me I’ve never told anyone this story.
It’s not like me, to go prattling on about the more painful parts of my past. But then .
. . perhaps that is because I’ve never had anyone so eager to listen.
Conrad watches me closely, his head cocked, waiting for more.
“It was so beautiful,” I murmur, “hovering over my hands, sparkling like crystal. I thought if my aunt saw it, she’d be pleased.
She was no Weaver, but my uncle had been, and I thought it might make her like me to know we shared the gift.
But I was wrong, of course. I think it made her hate me more.
She forbade me from having anything to do with magic. ”
“Ah.” Conrad lets out a long, thin breath, his head falling back against the stall door. “So that’s it.”
“That’s what?”
He looks down at his hands, his fingers twisting a piece of straw. “I wondered why you despised me from the moment we met. It’s because I remind you of her, isn’t it? Of course I do. You must think me a beast.”
“I . . . well, at first, yes.” The admission makes my ears burn.
“But you’re not like her. Not at all. She believed in .
. . firm punishments, for one thing.” I look down at my hands, trying to hide the ugly truths of my past from him.
But then I feel his fingers, light as silk, on my jaw, with his thumb just brushing the scar on my throat.
I freeze, my gaze fixing upon his, wondering if he can feel my pulse quicken in my neck.
“Did she give you this?” he whispers, his eyes fire trapped in amber glass.
My mouth parts, breathless, and his thumb traces its way up my neck to follow the curve of my jaw, as his gaze tears at me like the northern wind I saw him conjure, threatening to strip away every secret in my body.
My treacherous mind flashes back to our night in Elfhame, of his mouth warm on mine, our hands entwined.
No, no, no, I want to scream at him. You don’t want this. You don’t know what I am!
My skin heats, a chill running from my scalp to my navel. I sit as one transfixed, his thumb working a magic unlike anything I learned in school.
But no; that is not my imagination—the air is moving, stirring the hay around us.
Feverish heat rolls off Conrad, who I realize is drawing energy in by the pail.
I can feel it, like water flowing just beneath the floor, rushing toward him.
The horses feel it too. Bell stamps and snorts, and across the stable, Ariadne whinnies.
“Conrad,” I whisper, placing my hand on his wrist. Is he even aware of what he is doing?
His eyes burn. “What happened to you, Rose? Did she hurt you?”
I’m on my knees now. I pluck a hair from Bell’s tail and begin to Weave a wind knot, something for him to pour all that energy into before it—or he—combusts.
Needles of straw are spiraling higher, caught up in the power rolling off Conrad, his magic uncontrolled and dangerously volatile.
If the lantern threw a spark, it would catch the air like a flash of lightning and set all this hay on fire.
Unspent magic simmers all around us, the air boiling and taut, ready to explode.
My eyes begin to burn; tears fall before I can stop them.
“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper. “She’s far away now. You’re losing control. You have to stop! Quick—take this!”
I thrust the wind knot into his hand, and he gasps, channeling all the energy at once.
A mighty gust of wind rushes through the stable.
The lantern sputters out as the doors crash open with a bang.
Mr. MacDougal curses and runs to them, and I take the opportunity to scramble out of the hay and over the stall door, scooping up my threadkit.
Conrad follows, and we dart to the rear door while Mr. MacDougal struggles to shut out the gale.
Now it is not Conrad’s wind which pushes the front doors open, but the wind of the moors, wild and angry, the howling vanguard of a coming storm.
I stumble into the night, my hair coming unbound in the wind.
I cannot even see the house for the leaves and debris blowing about.
Conrad puts his hand on my back, turning me toward it, and I follow his guidance until we reach the kitchen door.
Behind us, lightning splits the sky. Thunder growls on the horizon.
We burst through, and Conrad throws himself against the door, latching it with a wooden bar to keep the wind out. We both breathe hard, disheveled and covered in straw.
Mrs. MacDougal is standing over the stove with a cup in hand, making herself a late-night tea.
She blinks at us as the kettle begins to scream behind her. But she doesn’t turn. She watches Conrad and me, her eyes wide.
I stand frozen in place, mortified, extremely aware of how we look and what she must think we were up to. But Conrad simply greets her with a nod, speaking over the howl of the kettle. “Mrs. MacDougal. Big storm coming in.”
Thunder breaks again, and I flinch. Mrs. MacDougal’s eyes shift to me, her expression unchanging.
Conrad straightens his waistcoat and bows to me. “Well, then. Good night, Miss Pryor. Thank you for the lesson.”
He waits so that I can leave first, and I can only think it is because he doesn’t want to leave me to face the housekeeper alone.
I scurry away as quick as I can, feeling Mrs. MacDougal’s eyes follow me all the way out; she doesn’t remove the kettle until I am out of sight.
My blood is pumping fast. It’s as if a piece of the storm lodged in my lungs and is raging in the cavity of my chest.
I pause on the stairs, holding a hand to my fluttering stomach.
What happened in that stable?
One minute, everything was going well enough.
I was teaching, he was learning, we were making innocent scholastic progress .
. . and the next minute, he was putting his fingers on my neck while I poured out my deepest secrets.
I made one mention of my aunt’s abuse, and he began drawing in magic as if he were about to charge into battle.
I knew agreeing to teach him would be a mistake.
Just as I know I am too weak to put a stop to it.
I can practically hear Lachlan’s sly laughter dancing on the wind.