Chapter 6 #2
Each room earned some derisive comment or scornful look from the Faerie. Although Mouse knew the reality of Thistlemarsh’s state more than anyone, she felt so incensed by his dismissal that she was bursting at the seams to defend it and throw him out.
They ended their tour in the study. He wrinkled his nose at the tiger-pelt rug.
“The interior is a disgrace,” he said.
“I am aware. What is your price?” Mouse growled.
The sun reflected off the windows. Shards of light fell onto Thornwood’s face, illuminating his eyes.
“The interior will cost you a finger.”
Mouse swallowed. “What?”
“This project will require many steps. For the interior, I would need your finger.”
“Why?”
“I find it so odd that humans must always ask why. Why is the sun out in the day and the moon out at night?”
Mouse felt her chin jut. “Why do you need my finger for your magic?”
“Fine. If you must know, I will need the bone for the structural elements and the flesh for the ornamentation. It must be yours or the spell will not work.”
She held her hands up to her eyes. “Will I be able to pick which finger?”
“I don’t see why not. It won’t make much of a difference.”
“And will it hurt?”
The Faerie’s expression softened. “No, it will not hurt,” he said. “Mind you, it may ache for a few days or when the weather turns, but you’ll hardly notice most days.”
“How quickly could your work on Thistlemarsh be done? I only have a month.”
“We will finish by then, but if you want it done faster, the price will be higher.”
Mouse clenched her fist. She focused on the brush of her little finger over her palm.
“No,” she said. “As long as it’s done.”
The Faerie shrugged. “As you like it.”
“Won’t people notice the change?”
“If we were doing it overnight, then guests might. We may need an additional spell to disguise the work, but since we are taking things so slowly, it is unlikely they will notice.”
“We don’t have guests here anyway,” Mouse said.
“Do you agree to my price?” Thornwood asked. His voice was steady, and his eyebrow raised.
“Why are you helping me?” Mouse asked. “You must get more out of this than a mortal’s finger.”
“You freed me from my enchantment.”
“We both know that is not the full reason.”
“Isn’t it reason enough? How badly do you want to save Thistlemarsh?”
Mouse let out a shaky breath. It was true; she needed Thornwood. Roger needed Thornwood. She did not trust him, of course, but what other choice did she have?
She held out her hand. “Yes, I agree. You may take my little finger.”
Thornwood’s eyes flashed with animal fierceness, and the air grew heavy, constricting around her lungs and her pinky.
The magic lifted as quickly as it came. Mouse dragged her hand up before her eyes, terrified and sure that she would find a bloody stump. She gasped.
Her finger was still there, pink from the pressure, but whole. She bent it slowly.
“You didn’t take it.”
“I do not need to hold something in my hand for it to be mine,” he said, and a bitter chill ran through her. The fierceness had not faded from his eyes.
“Will my presence affect the magic?” Mouse asked. The Faerie raised an eyebrow. “I may need to come in for supplies during the day. And I am sleeping here at night.”
Thornwood shook his head. “It may be more difficult while I am performing the magic during the day, but it can work around you at night, if you tell me where you sleep.”
“I can show you. Will that help?”
“I don’t see why not. Of course, I will see it soon enough, but the earlier I can begin visualizing, the better.”
The corridors of the third floor seemed smaller and more run-down than she remembered them being only the day before.
The last stair to the fourth-floor landing groaned in warning, and Mouse breathed a sigh of relief when it didn’t break under their feet.
The Matchbox was tucked away at the end of the hallway, just around the corner and out of sight from the main stair.
The perfect place for an unwanted relative.
“You choose to sleep in here?” Thornwood asked.
Mouse bristled. “It is my childhood bedroom.”
He shrugged, then prowled over the floorboards. His gaze slid onto Bertie’s journal, and he moved to pick it up.
“Don’t,” she said, hopping across to the shelf in alarm. The Faerie pulled back. Mouse scooped the book up. “It’s very delicate.”
He wrinkled his nose and moved on. Gently, she replaced the journal on its shelf. The white spine shone like bone against the dark tones of the other books.
“And is that little red book you’ve been clinging to a gift from your teacher? The one who told you about Faeries?” he asked as he inspected the tree painting.
“I suppose you could say that,” Mouse said, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. She took the book from her pocket, tracing the flurry of foil roses on the cover.
“I will come again tomorrow in an official capacity,” Thornwood said, drifting toward the door.
“Official?”
“Magic works better if you layer it with the truth,” he said. “Until then, my lady.”
“Wait—” Mouse started, but it was too late. He was gone.
“Cryptic bastard.”