Page 50 of Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“I lost my own mother, as a child,” Moll whispered, the pain of the woman’s loss triggering her own.

Lady Haddon opened her eyes. With trembling fingers, she unfastened the clasp of her locket. “Mine passed naught five months ago.”

Moll stared at the fine miniature of a woman with brown hair and laughing eyes. “She’s beautiful, my lady,” she said, rising to her feet. “Keep her close to your heart. Such things hold power.” Indeed, ‘twas likely the locket’s presence that had kept Lady Haddon alive this long.

The chamber door opened abruptly, and Lord Haddon entered, every muscle in his frame taut and his thin face clouded with worry. Ignoring Moll entirely, he hurried to his wife’s side and dropped to his knee to gently take her small hands in his. “And how do you fare, my love? Stronger?”

Lady Haddon summoned her strength to give him an affectionate pat on the cheek. “Do not worry so, my lord. I am well. Your heir simply saps my strength, growing stronger by the day. ‘Tis no cause to fret. Return to your business in the hall. I am well enough.”

The man’s lips curved in a smile but there was little joy on his face.

As Lady Haddon brushed the hair back from his face, Moll slipped away.

She hurried down the keep’s stairs, chewing her bottom lip with worry. A broken heart, broken by the loss of a pure love, was the worst heartbreak to cure—bar that of losing a child. Lord help her, but Lady Haddon was doomed. The mushrooms to aid in the healing were rare, and—

Moll drew up short.

The stables. When she’d arrived, she’d seen the mushrooms, growing along the stable wall. Were they there still? Had the snow damaged the stalks? ‘Twould take only six, perhaps five, to cure her.

Hope rolled over Moll, quickly followed by alarm.

The castle gates were locked still.

Moll flew down the remainder of the stairs. ‘Twas just to the stables and back. Surely, Lord Haddon would allow her to run there? Surely, he’d listen if his cherished wife’s life depended on it?

Heartened and filling with hope, she hurried to the hall. Hadn’t Lady Haddon told him to return there? ‘Twould be simple. She’d lurk in the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to speak with the man. ‘Twould be tricky, of course, but with his lady fading before his eyes, truly, what had he to lose?

“And now, with the plague razing the borderlands, he’s certain ‘tis witchcraft,” the ominous words boomed as Moll stepped into the hall.

She froze and squinted through the darkness to where Lord Hay and Lord Maxwell sat at the table nearest the fire.

Just outside the circle of light, Taran lounged against a neighboring table, absently fingering the dirk hanging from his belt.

“The king is ever quick to judge,” his brogue filled the silence that had met the ominous words.

Moll inched closer, hugging the wall.

“’Tis witchcraft, plain and simple,” Lord Hay disagreed. He jabbed the parchment before him on the table. “A score of witches have already been burnt.”

“And has the plague halted?” Taran asked acidly.

“’Tis clear why it has not,” a new voice inserted from the darkness behind Moll.

She held her breath as Lord Haddon passed before her, within arm’s reach, his shoulders hunched and every line of his lanky form tense.

The others fell silent, waiting for him to join. Then, Lord Hay queried, “And what causes the plague’s spread?”

“’Tis clear, there are more witches to be found,” came the man’s immediate reply.

Moll’s heart jumped to her throat. There would be no frank talk with Lord Haddon. She’d have to find another way to save his lady’s life.

Taran hefted himself off the table with a snort of disdain. “I dinna agree, but the king will do as he wills, regardless of our beliefs. If ye’ll excuse me?”

With a brusque nod to them all, he wheeled and strode toward the door opposite from where she stood. Moll picked up her skirts and returned the way she’d come. Taran. Surely, he’d aid her quest. She dashed to the courtyard and scanned the wall’s above.

‘Twas dark and cold, but the torches burned brightly enough. She spied Taran almost at once, striding toward the northern tower, his shoulders bent against the wind.

Quickly, she took the nearest stairs and called out his name, “Taran! Wait!”