Chapter 5 #3
“Dawson!” Mouse shouted as the car started to pull out. His head snapped toward her. Mouse flicked her eyes across his face. “I could see you in a tea shop, but only as long as you have an entire army of bakers or servers to command.”
The surprise ebbed from his eyes, and the corners of his mouth flicked. For the first time in her life, Mouse saw him truly smile.
Despite Mouse’s anxiety about being alone in Thistlemarsh, the emptiness was pleasant. No one was there to worry about or tiptoe around. Still, she stroked the edge of Blakeney’s, comforted by its weight in her pocket.
She set to work in the lounge. Mouse watered down some baking soda to attempt to scrub the lounge wall. She used cut-up livery to clean, as the rags in the laundry were worn through.
At first, the amount of grime she stripped from the wall was encouraging, if revolting.
However, the more she lifted away, the more deterioration she revealed.
Entire chunks of plaster came away with disintegrating wallpaper.
Through the holes, she could see the beams leading up to the ceiling, and dead bugs and mice droppings lined the crevices.
Repressing her panic, she started on the furniture.
The shift did nothing to lift her spirits.
The upholstery was frayed to the point that Mouse could not make out the original patterns.
Yellowed stuffing stuck out of split seams, mold ate through the couch legs, and as Mouse worked, the floorboards bowed under her weight.
Soon, she found herself in the middle of the room, overcome with dread. The lounge looked worse than when she started, and it was only a fraction of Thistlemarsh’s repairs.
She buried her face in her hands, her heart throbbing in her throat. If she had a year, she could not fix all of this, and she only had a month.
“What am I going to do?” she whispered.
No one answered. The house was empty.
John had not been able to find anyone in the village to help with the bigger interior work. The best builders were gone, as he suspected, and those left were unwilling to take on the job. Mouse’s conviction that she could do nothing without the help of a miracle grew.
Or Faerie magic, a voice inside her head whispered. She quickly squashed the voice down as she threw herself out into the garden.
In a way, the garden was worse. Mouse could see Mr. Hobb’s efforts in trimming back the bushes and the sprouting flowers, but it was the kind of desperate work one does when they are both overwhelmed and directionless.
“Forgive me, Miss Mouse,” Mr. Hobb said when he joined her on the grounds, his cap pressed flat between his hands. “I should have done a better job of maintaining things.”
“It is not your fault. Uncle fired ten gardeners after the war, and before, that was barely enough to keep up with the demands of the estate. It’s too much to ask one person to take on.”
“Still, I feel as if I disappointed you. The garden was so beautiful when your father was in charge.”
“It was,” Mouse said.
“Is selling an option?” Mr. Hobb asked. “I don’t pretend to know anything about estate management, but it might be more worthwhile for you and Roger in the end.”
“You are probably right, but it isn’t an option.
Either I restore the house, or Carlyle inherits.
He offered to buy it off me, just to speed up the process.
He must be desperate, but I cannot figure out why.
If I was smart, I’d sell to him. I suppose he’s the only one who could pay me for it, because my uncle’s will expressly forbids selling.
But the document could not do much to stop me if it was Carlyle, could it? I could just take the money and leave.”
Mouse laughed bitterly.
“It’s not my place to say, but Lord Dewhurst has done wrong by you and your brother.”
“He never cared much for me, but I thought he would be kinder to Roger, especially after all that happened in the war. Maybe we both reminded him too much of Bertie. Or maybe he was just a cold bastard. Either way, this is how it’s all played out.”
“Your mother would have been ashamed of him,” Mr. Hobb said gruffly.
“I should hope so. Mother had more morality in her little finger than he did in his entire body.”
Mr. Hobb patted the top of Mouse’s hand. “I do not want you working yourself to the bone for this house or your uncle’s amusement in the afterlife, wherever he may be.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I will consider my options.”
“Be sure you do, miss.”
Mr. Hobb tottered off in the direction of his cottage, his legs bowed with age. A gentle whistle carried back to her from his retreating form.
In her heart, Mouse knew the restoration was a lost cause. At least she had tried. It was better than Lord Dewhurst would have done, in her position.
She would telephone Beckett to discuss their options. She and Roger would be fine. Roger needed calm more than anything else, and she could find another nursing position that would pay well enough to keep him at Le Temple des Fées.
When she reached the door, she found a letter stuffed haphazardly into the letter box.
As her eyes scanned the page, her hands started to tremble, shaking the words until they were unreadable.
Furious, she tore the paper in two, then in two again, until it was just thin squares of confetti littering the entryway.
Dear Nurse Dunne,
I regret to inform you that your brother’s condition still has not improved.
To that end, the War Office has implemented a new medical decree to reorganize their medical assets.
In three months’ time, Le Temple des Fées will be reformed into a hospital for soldiers that are expected to recover from their injuries.
I am afraid that this means you will need to find a new place for your brother, preferably a convalescent home where they can attend to his unique needs. I wish I could write with better news.
Please let me know how you would like to proceed as soon as possible.
Your friend and colleague,
Dr. Hubert Smithson
Her fingers itched where they had touched the paper. She scrubbed them raw against her clothes. Still, the feeling remained with her. Anger and desperation boiled under her skin as she made her way up the stairs to the Matchbox and were at a roar by the time she slipped into clean clothes.
The cost of a private convalescent home would be exorbitant.
Marrying was the other option presented by the will, but Mouse knew it was a near impossibility to find someone decent in just a month, especially with her “infamous lineage.” The only people who would consider her were fortune hunters, who would swoop in and strip Thistlemarsh bare for gambling money or to restore their own family seats.
Mouse knew the type, those high-society men who would merrily watch thousands die while safe behind a desk. It was a common enough story, during the war.
Most importantly, she had no guarantee that a new husband would treat Roger kindly, when he came to live with them at Thistlemarsh.
Any thoughts of calling Beckett evaporated into smoke as she scrubbed her hands twice over in the water dish on her nightstand.
She patted her pocket to make sure that her copy of Blakeney’s was still there, then she threw herself out the door, down the stairs, and into the entrance hall.
She glared at the ugly walls, the broken staircase, and the bare patches of plaster as she went.
She pictured her uncle’s most condescending expression spreading like mold across his face.
She was halfway through Thistlemarsh Wood before she realized that she had made up her mind.
Night consumed the sky, and Mouse had to squint to make out any shapes moving beneath the trees. Finally, her frustration overcame her, and she stopped. She looked up at the circle of sky framed by the treetops. A few shimmering stars glinted above, but purple wisps of cloud obscured the rest.
“You returned,” said the Faerie, stepping out from the darkness.
“I did,” Mouse said.
“I assume that you have made your choice.”
“Yes. I have.”
The Faerie smiled, and the tips of his vicious teeth glinted. “You must say the words.”
Mouse bristled but nodded, knowing, in affairs of magic, words did matter.
“I want to make a bargain,” she muttered.
He leaned forward, a predator preparing to pounce on its prey. “A bit louder.”
She ground her teeth. “I want to make a bargain.”
His features sharpened. “Once more,” he whispered.
“I want to make a bargain,” she said, then tacked on, “please.”
She was unsure if it was the final word or the repetition of the request three times, but the wind picked up.
It flared her skirt and kicked up the fallen leaves.
All the debris swirled around the Faerie.
He was the epicenter of a storm, drawing in the world around him and feasting on it with frantic energy.
The magic swelled, and the world felt closer, growing in intensity and color until it seared the hair on Mouse’s arms. A jagged lightning bolt split the sky, and she dropped to the ground.
The scent of ozone and burned wood clogged her nose.
A metallic flavor coated her tongue and teeth as she breathed.
She pressed her nose into her shoulder, muting the smell and taste.
“The process has begun. I will meet you first thing tomorrow morning to discuss formalities.”
“Where?” she asked, her voice cracking around the words.
“I will find you. Be ready at first light.”
When she dared to raise her head, the Faerie was gone. The tension in the air broke, and she stumbled through the trees, her knees weak. She ran until she was back in the Matchbox, shaking beneath the covers, her head pounding and her blood hot under her skin.