Page 79 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Heather House

They rode north, passing through forests and villages, some struck by plague and others by fear. The winds blew cold, and the further they rode, the thicker the mists became. On the evening of the third day, Doughall reined his horse at the head of the party and waited for Taran to join him.

“What is it?” Taran asked.

Moll stirred in his arms and pushed back the plaid from her face.

“I canna see,” the gray-braided man growled as he pointed at the earth. “I’ve lost the path.”

Moll glanced down. Instead of the road beneath their horses’ hooves, she saw only heather and gorse. The mists rolling around them were only growing thicker even as they watched.

“I’ve seen these mists afore,” Taran murmured thoughtfully. “Though, ‘twas further north.”

“There, to the left,” one of the clansmen called from behind. “’Tis a break in the trees.”

Moll squinted toward the trees.

She saw her then, a tall, willowy lady in a green gown and with her long, raven hair tumbling out from beneath a pearl-strewn net.

“The Lady of the Stones,” Taran breathed softly.

Moll held her breath. Her heart began to pound. The woman was a witch, as clearly announced by her eyes, but there was something unworldly about her as well.

Almost as if in a dream, Taran nudged his horse forward as Moll sat ramrod straight in his arms.

The lady waited until they were close, then turned and led them through the trees, floating over the forest floor like a wraith. Moll could only shiver and watch.

After a few minutes, they left the trees and upon entering a woodland glade, the lady suddenly vanished.

“Who is she?” Moll gasped, realizing only then that they’d all been struck dumb.

As the men about her began to murmur, the mists in front of them parted to reveal a large stone circle only several yards away.

“’Tis as I thought,” Taran said in a low voice. “We are at Heather House.”

“Heather House?” Moll queried.

He shifted behind her and slowly dismounted, and then reached up to hand her down. As her foot touched the ground, a freezing gust of wind swept through the glade to clear the mists entirely away.

“What is this place?” Moll demanded, louder as she searched the stone circle ringed by ancient trees.

“You are home, child,” a voice sounded from behind.

Moll turned.

A blonde-haired woman swathed in a dark blue cloak stood next to the largest stone in the circle. Unlike the mysterious woman from before, this one appeared truly made of flesh and blood, radiating a timeless beauty, a grace and poise that spoke of patience and wisdom as well as unearthly charm.

“Well done, Taran,” she said, greeting him with a warm smile. “Ye brought Moll safe to her own kind.”

Taran bowed his head.

“My kind?” Moll repeated.

The woman turned to Moll. “I am Christine, the Witch of Heather House, a haven for our kind,” she said. “Welcome, lass. Here, ye’ll be safe.”

Moll glanced about. “The raven-haired woman…I’ve seen her before.” Hadn’t she? In the laundry? Or had that been Bertha…or both?

“’Tis the Lady of the Stones,” Christine replied. “She comes and goes wither she wills, lass, ever atween worlds. Ye’ll see her again, I’ve no doubt. Mayhap, as even a woman of great age.” A gleam of mirth entered her eye.