Chapter 8 #2
Mouse and Mr. Hobb worked until the sun went down. Every task seemed to lead to two more. They paused to eat their sandwiches three hours later than planned.
“I think we can be proud of ourselves, at the very least,” Mr. Hobb said between mouthfuls of egg. Mouse nodded, taking a long sip of tea. Her hands were crusted with dirt, and she was out of breath, but she could not remember a time that she felt more satisfied.
Work at the hospital was important, of course, but in the months since the war ended, the rush of triage work had slowed into the painful languidness of chronic care.
Although no one said it aloud, all the nurses knew that most of the men still in their hospital would never improve, no matter what anyone did to help.
There was a miasma that permeated the ward, the dust of dashed dreams poisoning the air.
Mouse shook away thoughts of the war, rubbing at the dirt coating her hands. “It’s refreshing to work in the soil, isn’t it?”
“Gardening is the best occupation in the world,” he said.
“I’ve said it since I was an undergardener at age fifteen, and I’ll say it now at age…
Well, never mind that. You have the advantage of creating and nurturing with gardening.
An architect can plan out a building, or an artist can paint a canvas, but gardening is the only occupation where you must care for your work after you have created it.
It has the advantage as well of both outliving you and surprising you. Like children.”
“Are you comparing Bertie, Roger, and me to flowers?” Mouse asked.
“More like weeds, the three of you.” He stared into the setting sun, taking another bite of his sandwich. She snorted.
Suddenly, a sharp sting ran through Mouse’s hand. She hissed, throwing it before her face to search for a bee. Her pinky throbbed. Sparkling light radiated off her fingertip.
She gasped. Mr. Hobb’s eyes snapped toward her, and she was able to transfer her surprised expression to her wristwatch.
“Is that the time? I best go in.”
“Of course,” Mr. Hobb said. Bits of egg clung to his mustache. She held out her handkerchief. He took it, touching the fabric to his temple in thanks. “You are an angel, my dear.”
They parted at the entrance; Mr. Hobb headed back to the shed.
When Mouse opened Thistlemarsh’s bloated front doors, her breath caught in her throat.
Without the familiar wood beneath her hands, Mouse would have mistaken Thistlemarsh Hall for a completely different building.
Polished oak floors gleamed, and the faded fabric in the tapestry was returned to its original glory.
Emerald woven leaves were caught midflutter on the trees, and pink and gold faces shouted joyously to one another.
Outside the hunters, the Faerie figures faded into shades of pale green.
Mouse had never noticed the difference before, as everything was bleached by sunlight into a dingy gray.
Layers of detail were brought to light for the first time.
She could even make out the tiered towers of Thistlemarsh Hall itself above the trees.
Thornwood appeared at her elbow as though out of thin air. He had changed from his white suit to a modern walking coat and matching trousers.
“You summoned me?” Mouse asked, holding up her pinky. The Faerie’s teeth flashed.
“Good work for a few hours, if I do say so myself,” he said, gesturing to the tapestry.
“I’m speechless,” Mouse said, taking in new woodwork uncovered from the grime on the ceiling. “Is that gold leaf?”
“Yes, there were traces underneath some very poorly applied paint. Your ancestors owe you an apology for ruining the finest elements of your home.”
“How much is left to fix?”
“The greatest damage is structural. The superficial touches do not take as much magic or time, but the bones need longer to strengthen.”
“But it can be done by the end of the month?”
“Of course. As we agreed.”
Mouse nodded. “Mr. Hobb and I did some solid work on the gardens, so I think everything might be on track.”
“I am glad you and the gardener could devise a reasonable plan between the two of you. The industriousness of humans never ceases to amaze.” A twist of bitterness colored his words.
“I’m not sure if that is a compliment.”
Thornwood ventured out through the door onto the front landing. Mouse followed behind, scanning the area for Mr. Hobb, should he see them. There was no one in sight.
“Honestly, neither am I. In any case, if you do need assistance on the grounds, let me know. We can make another deal.”
“Thank you, but I would rather keep the rest of my fingers. I am familiar with gardening, so I should be able to do a decent job without your help.”
He took in the garden, with his gaze lingering on the dent Mouse and Mr. Hobb had made in the overgrowth. Mouse brought her hands in front of her, displaying the dirt.
“You are the expert, I am sure,” he said as he took in the wheelbarrow at the end of the far lawn. His fingers twitched, and the crooked front wheel righted in its frame.
She glared at him, and he scoffed. “Would you like me to put it back?”
“No,” she said, jaw tight.
“I thought not.”
The sun dipped under the hill, and its power waned, letting the dregs of winter seep in.
Mouse shivered. The Faerie’s fingers flexed as he walked to survey the other side of the garden in the dying light.
She watched him move, noting how his long fingers seemed to unbend in suspended time.
Will the magic need his constant touch during the month? she wondered.
“Well, I suppose I ought to introduce you to my servant, as you will see him often enough while I work,” Thornwood said, casual as anything as he returned to her. Instantly, there was another presence with them.
The Faerie servant was tall, with long jet-black hair tied back from his face and a back as straight as a lamppost. Shadows burrowed into the lines of his frown, elongating and enhancing them.
Everything about him screamed gauntness, from his bony fingers to his hollow cheeks.
Mouse flinched, but the servant acted as though he had joined them from inside the Hall, rather than popping out of thin air.
He took Mouse in with a neutral expression.
“There will be little need for you to interact with him,” Thornwood said. “He is just here to assist me.”
Mouse recovered some of her manners. “And does he have a name?”
Both the men shuddered. A hot flush spread over her cheeks. Of course a Faerie would never give you their name; anyone with any understanding of them knew that. Hadn’t she been annoyed when Thornwood asked the same question of her? She pressed on, “A name that I should call him, I mean.”
“You may call me Mickelwaithe,” the servant said, bowing at the hip. His voice was hollow, and Mouse would swear she could hear an echo in it. Despite this, she could not shake the feeling that he was laughing at her.
“Hello, Mickelwaithe. You may call me Mouse.” She smiled at him and dipped into a slight curtsy. The movement felt odd, like an ill-fitting slipper forced on for the first time in years. The servant’s eyes followed her like an owl watching a mouse.
“Do you need a place to sleep tonight?” Mouse asked. Thornwood stumbled slightly. “Nothing untoward. I am not sure Faeries even sleep, but it seems rude not to ask.”
“Won’t your immaculate reputation be ruined?” he asked.
Mouse snorted. “Who told you that I had an immaculate reputation?”
“Most mortal noblewomen have them, in my experience, regardless of how they might behave when their guests are gone.”
“Well, rest assured, you cannot do much to my reputation. If I ever had one, it’s surely sunk. Accept the invitation or reject it. It means little to me. Foolishly, I thought you might prefer a bed to a hedgerow.”
“Somehow, being stone for a hundred years makes just about anything comfortable enough to sleep on,” he replied.
“My mistake. I will leave you to your own accommodations.” Her thoughts were already on the egg sandwich she would make later that evening for supper. Perhaps she might sneak in a slice of ham as well.
“We will need to collect some things,” Thornwood said, squinting at her. “But I would appreciate one or two rooms for the duration of our stay.”
“I might point out that I offered a night, not for you to move in. But I suppose you have nowhere else civilized to stay,” Mouse said, turning back through the front doors.
She paused in the doorway. Warm air billowed out from the Hall, a completely new sensation to anything she had ever experienced at Thistlemarsh when not huddled by a fireplace.
“It’s warm,” she said, turning back.
“Yes, well, part of repairing the house is making it comfortable, is it not?”
Mouse nodded, biting on her tongue to stop tears from welling up.
The damp chill that clung to the air in Thistlemarsh Hall had been with her all her life. The cold coated her childhood like a blanket of snow, so ingrained that she forgot to think of it. Her fingers tingled as the heat bit back the cool garden air.
“I will leave egg sandwiches for you both tomorrow,” she said. She wavered on the final word, struck with fear that her payment had not been enough, that the Faerie would not return the next day, and that her uncle’s oppressive spirit would drive away the warmth.
If the Faerie noticed the tremor, he did not indicate it.
“Mickelwaithe cannot eat mortal food, so please do not waste your energy in that regard.”
The Faerie servant inclined his head in agreement, and Mouse blinked, unsure how to move forward.
Thornwood spared her from her indecision. “We will return tonight before midnight.” He stepped off the stair into the open air. Both master and servant vanished, leaving Mouse blinking owlishly into the growing dark.
It wasn’t just the main hallway that was heated. Every room was piped with thick, warm air that smelled vaguely of spices. She pulled off her coat, astonished to find herself overheated, considering how cold she was a few moments before.
She used the delightful energy the heat generated to catapult herself onto the sofa in the lounge.
She expected a familiar cloud of dust to rise around her, puffing up from the bowels of the cushions.
The cloud didn’t come. Instead, she sank into the pillows, no longer threadbare and harsh against her cheek.
She marveled at the stuffing under her hand, plush where it had been rotten and hollow before.
Everything about the room had transformed since that morning.
The paper on the wall gleamed with new wax, and the carpet was a vibrant red instead of choked rust. The layer of dust coating the paintings had vanished, and the jeweled colors glittered in the firelight as if the paint was still wet on the canvas.
It was as though Thornwood had rewound the hands of time, restoring the room to its original brilliance. Was this how her mother experienced Thistlemarsh in her own childhood?
Eventually, she dragged herself up to the Matchbox. Her legs and arms ached from the garden work, but it was an affirming soreness.
Hope rose unbidden in her chest. If Thornwood could get so much done in one day, they would certainly have everything well in hand by the end of the month.