Chapter 7
That night, hunger called Mouse to the Thistlemarsh kitchen, even as the whistling wind hissed at her to stay in the Matchbox.
She shuffled to the doorway. The doorknob was cold to the touch, and she looked back to the bed.
Could she stand the gnawing hunger until the morning?
Her stomach growled pathetically. She pursed her lips and opened the door into the hallway.
A burst of cold air met her, and she huddled in her robe, raising her single candle away from her flyaway hair. The corridor was pitch-black, as her uncle had not taken the trouble of installing electricity on the fourth floor.
Her breath fogged, and Mouse shuddered against the cold.
She would need to figure out how to light the fires herself in the morning, at least until there was a more permanent heat source.
How terrible that she’d forgotten her field training so soon.
Some basics were fresh in her mind—she could still make coffee and tea—but everything else had fled as soon as she stopped needing it.
“An egg sandwich tonight,” she said to herself. “Then tomorrow, we’ll start studying for more advanced meals. Between gardening.”
As she crept down the stairs, her mind wandered to Thornwood. What did he mean, official? What could she expect the next day? She did not know and hated how the thoughts sat in her gut like an unexploded mine.
“Such a bastard,” she whispered. When she reached the third-floor landing, she flicked on the lights. Her reflection stared back at her from the long mirror that ran across the balcony. She screamed and nearly dropped the candle. Her doppelganger in the mirror did the same.
“Faeries!” she hissed, only too aware of how ridiculous she was at that moment.
Thornwood was hardly responsible for her uncle’s mirror or Mouse’s unkempt appearance.
She looked more like a ghost than a fine lady.
Most of her hair escaped its braid, twisting in a tangle of dark and frizzy curls around her face.
Her eyes, too wide and dark on a good day, were blown wide open, and her cynical mouth was pulled down into a frown.
She looked away.
Copper gleamed off nearly every kitchen surface except the deep black iron oven.
The cook had left the kettle on the hob, although the grate was cold.
Mouse lifted it off and nearly doubled over from the weight.
She was used to light tin kettles, which could be packed into nurse kits or fit easily on an apartment stove.
She tottered under its weight but eventually was able to fill it and replace it on the hob before falling into the wooden chair next to the oven.
She breathed deeply, taking in the flickering light bulbs and china. There had been a time when the servant quarters were full of footmen and maids. She wasn’t sure that she missed those times exactly, but she did miss the noise in the face of the echoing silence.
When she finally caught her breath, she searched the cupboards for matches. She found some at last, buried among spare candles.
It took a few feeble attempts, but soon she had a fire going strong enough to boil water. The tea cupboard burst with an assortment of blends. She pulled out an herbal mix of mint, lavender, and chamomile she favored as a child, grateful that no one had thrown away the packet while she was gone.
A boy from the village had delivered bread during the day, and it was still golden and soft when Mouse retrieved it from the pantry.
She had tea in hand and an egg frizzling over her fire in no time, with toast frying on either side.
The tea slid down her throat, warming her from the inside out, and she smiled.
“Not too bad, Mouse. Now you just need to survive on tea and egg sandwiches until you can sort out something else.”
It felt anachronistic to think Thistlemarsh was an ancient hall beyond its modern belly, complete with a Faerie past and medieval walls.
A telephone hung on the border between the kitchen and the servant hall, a proud display of wealth and innovation from before the war.
The kitchen was the only place her uncle had felt was worth updating with the turn of the twentieth century.
Mouse wondered if, hundreds of years ago, the Faerie King’s servants had walked down to the hearth where the oven now stood, warming their feet by the fire. Mouse didn’t doubt it, although she did not know if Faeries had much use for mortal fire.
The wind howled. Mouse threw back the dregs of her tea, scarfed down the remains of her sandwich, then poured another cup to accompany her and her candle back to the Matchbox.
When she reached the mirror again, Mouse smiled at her reflection until her eyes landed on something she had not seen before. Her heart caught in her throat.
Her reflection was missing its pinky finger from the first knuckle up.