Deference won’t be hard. I’ll pretend it’s not terror.
Maybe, after she breaks the magic on the letter, she can tell me how to find the weapon that cursed me. Or maybe she won’t need the weapon at all. Maybe she’ll take one look at me and go “Ah, cursed by a rage-inducing comb. I’ve seen that before,” and I’ll be free before sunset.
My chest clenches, too much hope welling; I’m dizzy with it.
I nod. “Lead the way.”
She heads off, picking her way delicately through the peatlands, avoiding more of those sunken muddy bits, and I follow her trail closely, keeping my hand tight in hers.
We reach the tangle of trees, and Alyth slows her steps. Up close, the hut’s just as nature beaten as it looked from afar, wrapped up in moss and vines, tree branches twisted into the roof until it’s hard to tell whether the trees grew up around the hut or vice versa.
Alyth walks up to the door and knocks three times. “Moyra?”
A pause.
The door creaks open, a shrieking squeal as it slowly peels wide. Shadows hover within, and after another stretched-out beat, a woman ducks to emerge.
She’s tall and severe, with long brown hair done in a plait over one shoulder, her dress simple and functional. Hard to guess her age—she could have ten years on us or thirty. Everything about her emits the same intention Alyth shows at the castle: a desire to be overlooked and unnoticed, finding power in the unseen.
But this woman snaps her eyes to me directly, and also like Alyth, it’s hard to imagine anyone ever overlooking her.
The witch—Moyra—raises one eyebrow and surveys me head to toe in a quick sweep, lingering on my hand in Alyth’s. Her face lightens with interest.
She says something in Scots, and Alyth answers her.
Then, with a glance at me, Alyth says, “He’s from London.”
The witch switches to English. “My, my, Alyth, what have you brought to my door?”
I swallow. Hard. It grates down my throat, and I just barely catch myself from answering when Alyth jumps in.
“Calling in that favor you owe me,” she says.
Moyra whips her gaze to Alyth.
I stiffen, muscles flexing, ready to intervene at thatlookfrom Moyra. Offense? Anger?
But it passes, and Moyra grins. “Ah. You fae and your favors. Come in, then.”
Moyra folds herself back into the hut.
Alyth starts to follow but stops when I tug on her hand.
“Favor?” I question, low enough that I hope Moyra doesn’t hear.
Alyth huffs a small laugh. “I relocated a herd of kelpies that wandered too far from the river and took up residence in her favorite grove.” She waves at the distance, presumably toward the grove. “They were tearing up the herbs Moyra uses in her spells.”
“Ah.” I nod, eyeing the doorway. I can’t see within the hut, even this close. “So Moyra isn’t fae. And her magic—”
“Is a wee bit different from mine,” Alyth finishes. “Which is why we need her. Now—” She bops me on the nose, and it startles a laugh out of me. “Hush, you.”
My smile widens. I bow my head mutely and wave her on.
She releases my hand to duck inside, and I don’t wait, not liking herout of my sight again. What if she falls into the fae realm without me? I follow quick.
But we’re just inside the hut. It’s like any other cabin, the rafters strung with dozens of clusters of drying herbs, and there’s a fire going—though there was no smoke outside, I note. There’s a table in one corner piled with mortars and pestles and all manner of containers, and in front of the fire are three chairs. The whole small room smells of burning wood and plants, cozy for the gloom that the exterior put off.
Moyra takes one chair and points at the other two. “Let’s do this quickly. I have other places to be.”
