Chapter 6
Dusty sunlight woke Mouse the next morning, the air punctuated by birdsong. She remembered the Faerie’s face in the dark woods, looming over her, with the moon shining in his white hair. Unbidden, the story of the woman taken from the guillotine by the Faerie came to mind.
“You are acting like an inexperienced girl,” she muttered to herself. “You’ve been through much worse than this at the hospital.”
But had she? The walls felt too close. She needed to be outside in the fresh air.
Mouse loitered at the top of the front steps. The morning was warm enough that she did not need a coat, and the breeze felt wonderful as it met the dew on her back and forehead. However, it did little to quell the uneasiness that hummed through her blood as she thought about the Faerie.
There were many stories of humans making deals with Faeries, but there were a few things that stood out to Mouse as she rummaged through them in her mind.
Firstly, one should never give their name to a Faerie. The name gave the Faerie power over its owner, and those stories never ended well for the mortal.
Secondly, one should always clarify what a Faerie meant in their deals. Although they could not lie, they could skirt around the truth, or twist it, to trick the mortal into making a mistake. These mistakes usually led to the mortal being turned into a frog or a stone statue, or other such magic.
Thirdly, iron was poisonous to Faeries. If you needed to escape them, use iron.
Lastly, and most important of all, never trust a Faerie completely. Faeries would always try to trick the mortal with whom they were bargaining. It was not clear why, but trickery was a through line in every story. It was just Faerie nature.
The sun rose higher, and it struck Mouse that the Faerie was late before she forced her attention to the greenery.
A passing line of bees changed their course, and Mouse watched, bemused, as they followed each other to the edge of the garden. In the blink of an eye, the Faerie stood at the tree line.
In the light of the morning, he looked different than she remembered from the night before. He seemed to bleed into the trees as seamlessly as he had when he’d been one of Thistlemarsh Wood’s statues. He still had the sunlight quality to him, and Mouse had to blink away the sting from her eyes.
The Faerie strolled toward Thistlemarsh, then paused. His eyes met hers.
With a jolt, Mouse realized he was waiting to be invited onto the stairs.
She did not invite him. He crossed his arms, arching an eyebrow. Mouse went to meet him.
When she reached him, she noticed that the grass leaned toward him. He seemed to revel in the attention, a false idol replacing the sun. A brave bee wobbled away from the others toward him. It landed gracefully on the branching line of his scar.
He did not flinch. He barely seemed to notice at all. Mouse looked back at the grounds, terrified that Mr. Hobb might already be working on the garden.
“I have taken the liberty of casting a small spell over the two of us. To anyone else, it will seem that you are just enjoying the view of the woods,” he said. “I imagine you would not like to be overheard.”
“You are late,” Mouse said stiffly, ignoring the frustrating fact that he had read her so easily.
Thornwood smiled the same predatory smile he wore the night before, more creature than man.
“By mere seconds. So pedantic, my lady.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.
“Alas, you refused to give me your name. What else am I to call you?”
“Everyone calls me Mouse. That will do just as well for you.”
The Faerie opened his hands wide at her words, his palms facing up. He breathed in steadily, the air hissing through his teeth like wind through leaves. A golden light grew from beneath his skin, radiating off him.
“Mouse,” he repeated. “That name has power. Not as much as your true name would have, but power nonetheless.”
“That’s all you’ll get from me.” Mouse crossed her arms over her chest.
The bee left the Faerie’s cheek. Flecks of gold formed on its fuzzy feet, like shining pollen that it had picked up from the Faerie’s presence.
“Did your teacher forget the most important lesson regarding Faeries? We must keep our word. Your distrust is unfair. We cannot lie.”
“It is because I know about Faeries that I know you are more complicated than that. You cannot lie, but you can do almost anything else to trick a mortal out of their soul.”
“You have such a poor opinion of us! What use would I have for your soul?” he said in mock hurt. “Why don’t we mend the bridge between our kinds and agree to be honest with each other?”
He held his hand out to her, and she eyed it warily.
“It’s best if we keep this interaction as simple as possible. No room for miscommunication,” she said.
His offered hand curled back into a white-knuckled fist, and his eyes hardened behind his smile.
“As you wish.”
“I need to attend to some errands this morning, but I will meet you at the rose garden on the side of the house after breakfast.” Mouse needed more time to think and to find her calm before they dealt further. “From there, we can determine exactly how much work needs doing and the cost.”
“You speak with such transactional terms,” the Faerie said.
“It’s my working-class upbringing. It betrays me at the worst moments. I can never bring myself to make small talk with someone when fewer words get the job done faster. Luckily, I think it will serve me well when dealing with a Faerie.”
“A very admirable trait indeed. If only more aristocrats adopted your outlook.”
“Are you very familiar with aristocrats of today?”
“I thought you told me you did not like small talk, my lady,” he said.
“It’s Mouse,” she hissed after him, but he had already melted in the spring air.
Thornwood sat on the bench in the rose garden.
He lounged across it, one boot planted on the seat while the other swung back and forth just above the ground.
Green vines twined upward through dead brown hedges.
He was inspecting a crumbling fountain with his head tilted slightly.
His white-blond hair was slicked away from his face in gentle waves.
The softness of his hair contrasted with his inhumanly sharp cheekbones and jawline.
The blindingly bright beauty still clung to him.
Mouse pressed Blakeney’s against her side, taking comfort from its presence.
“I have never seen this particular style in the fashionable gardens I’ve frequented,” he said when she came to stand beside him.
“Oh yes, broken fountains are all the rage,” Mouse said dryly.
The Faerie arched his fingers lazily, and the fountain pulled back together like a boot lacing itself.
Mouse yelped.
“That bit of magic was a gift. Think of it as a sample of what I can do now that we are in business together. Do not expect any other favors.”
As often as she’d read about magic in books, Mouse had never seen it performed. Every element of it was an oxymoron. The spell happened in both the blink of an eye and for eternity, and she remembered everything and nothing about the moment.
“Do not think too hard about it,” the Faerie instructed. “Mortals have driven themselves mad trying to decipher Faerie magic. Best to accept it and move on.”
Mouse shook her head, taking in the fountain. She drifted toward it and held out her hand. The stone was smooth under her touch.
“Amazing,” she whispered.
“Yes, I know,” he said, standing. “Well, let’s see what else I need to do.”
Approaching the house, Mouse palmed the key to the front door, the comforting weight of the iron heavy in her hand.
Thornwood eyed the key warily, and she noted that as evidence of Faeries’ distaste for iron.
John’s bicycle decorated the staircase to the front doors.
The spokes stood out like a beacon of modernity in a sea of stale traditionalism.
Mouse made herself turn away before the temptation to hop on the bicycle and ride off became too much.
As the Faerie took in the crumbling stairs and Thistlemarsh’s battered facade, his lips curled into a sneer.
Mouse held her breath as she pushed the key into the keyhole, horrified at the thought that it might not fit. When was the last time anyone used this side of the door? The servants usually locked it from the inside after the family was in bed. Would she need to break a window?
Grooves clicked into place, and the doors squealed open. She sighed and sagged through the doorway. Icy air clung like a second skin. There was no one left to light the fires.
Thornwood coughed from the doorway.
“Is something wrong?” Mouse asked.
“I need an invitation,” the Faerie said stiffly.
Another truth to the legends confirmed. “Come in, Thornwood.”
He marched through the door, past her, and straight into the hallway. Mouse flicked on the electric lights, illuminating the tapestry and the great elk antlers.
The walls pressed in closer in the tinny lighting, and the family artifacts looked desperate.
“To think, this used to be a palace,” he said, and Mouse wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself.
“In the thirteenth century, the Faerie King wanted Thistlemarsh as his hunting lodge,” Mouse said, the story as comfortable on her lips as a well-worn glove on her hand.
Thornwood cut her off. “I am well aware of the history of this house. Ask any Faerie, and they will know of Thistlemarsh Hall as any mortal knows of Westminster Abbey.”
He followed the procession of hunters in the tapestry, his gaze resting on each mortal face.
Finally, he came to a man in a dark yellow jerkin on a black horse.
While the other figures in the tapestry looked toward one another or the dogs, this man watched the trees.
One Faerie face loomed at his eyeline, looking back.
“This is the first Dewhurst, the one who deceived the Faerie King.” Thornwood traced his index finger between the man and the Faerie in the tapestry. He scoffed and turned away. “Let’s see the rest of it.”