The Moorwitch

by Jessica Khoury

And feel a cold hand close on my shoulder.

Fair Clotho turns out threads from her spindle, which dark Lachesis measures out. And withered Atropos, in her black gown and veil, looms with her shears, ready to snip short some unsuspecting life, her expression calm but resolute.

In the shadows ’neath your bed, She spins her spells with spider’s thread, Her hair is black, her eyes are red, And if she sees you, you are dead.

“There are those Below who may . . . challenge my return. So I must return at full power or not at all, and to do that, I need your assistance.”

“In Elfhame,” the faerie says slowly, “there is a tree. I require but a piece of it. You, little bird, will flit into the realm of the fae, pluck a branch from this tree, and bring it to me.”

For it was your heart you swore upon when you tied the vowknot to seal our bargain.”

“When you have delivered to me a branch from the Dwirra Tree, Rose Pryor, your debt to me will be paid in full.”

My Dearest Philip, I have found the faerie Gate, on this, the eve of my deadline. I must open it tonight, even if it means turning to a breed of magic that I swore I’d never use. I will open it, and then, at last, I will finally be free of my debt, free to return to you. We shall be married as we had planned, and I will never depart from your side again. With all my love, Fiona

I give Sylvie a smile. “It’s time for your first real lesson in the art of Weaving.”

it shows a severe woman in flowing robes, one hand raised as if about to render judgment, the other held out from her side; on her open palm stands a spider, and its web drapes over the crown on the woman’s head. I think of the spiderweb spells spun around the stone circle, and my blood turns to ice.

Who the rhyme earlier was about