Chapter 9
To Mouse’s disappointment, the only changes to the house she could see the next day were subtle ones. So subtle that she was not entirely sure that they were there at all.
The dining room’s ceiling was whole and shining again in the lamplight, but by morning much of the gleam had faded as though rubbed away by an unseen hand.
The changes ebbed and flowed the whole week, and Mouse was left wondering if magic needed to find its balance after a spell was cast. The radiators poured heat into the rooms one day but were cold to the touch the next. Hot water was even more elusive.
Mouse scurried into town for the essentials, like milk and bread, but she spent as little time there as possible.
The villagers were curious about the mysterious man repairing the manor, but Mouse dodged their questions with practiced efficiency.
She felt worse about dodging John altogether, but she knew that he could sense a secret on her a mile off.
She would blurt out the whole story, and then he would try to talk her out of the deal with Thornwood.
That is, if he even believed her about the Faerie and his deal.
So, like a coward, she tiptoed around town and avoided the vicarage.
She could not help but pick up the edges of whispered conversation while waiting in line at the bakery.
Patrons talked about strange goings-on in Thistlemarsh Wood at night.
Some speculated that both Thornwood and Mickelwaithe were war veterans from the continent whom “Lady Dewhurst” (the title set Mouse’s teeth on edge) had nursed back to health.
While words like “soldier” and “toff” passed many lips, the word “Faerie” never did.
Day by day, the garden re-formed. Warm air blew over the grounds, wrapping Mouse and Mr. Hobb in a cocoon of perfect gardening weather. The rain fell to water the plants while leaving the earth dry enough to work with the next morning.
After a particularly productive day in the garden at the end of the week, Mouse made her way back to Thistlemarsh with a light heart.
Strangely, with every passing day, Mouse sensed Thornwood’s irritation growing, as though the progress in the garden was an insult to the smaller results inside the house.
When she reached the Hall, she found him pacing the front landing, surveying the facade with a furrowed brow.
Mickelwaithe’s tall figure lingered behind him, tucked as far into the shadows as possible while still taking in the house.
From a distance, she could see that they were speaking, with Thornwood tossing short statements at Mickelwaithe, who remained ramrod straight and stoic.
Instead of calming Thornwood, this seemed to irritate him more.
Mouse could not help but snort at the exchange.
They heard her. Mickelwaithe dipped into a bow, which Mouse returned.
She did not bother to curtsy to Thornwood. He had already stormed away.
Mouse woke with a cold nose and a shadow towering over her. Thornwood glared down at her. She bolted up, dragging the blanket up to her chin.
“Do you have a house spirit?” he asked.
“You can’t just come into my room while I’m sleeping!” she squealed.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Why not?” Mouse repeated, her voice rising.
“If you want this work done quickly, my questions need to be answered as soon as possible. I cannot have my way blocked by human customs, as fascinating as I am sure they are,” he said dryly.
“You cannot just walk into this room while I am sleeping. You must knock and wait for me to come to the door.”
“And I thought you were not concerned with your reputation.” Thornwood batted away her angry response with the back of his hand. “Fine, fine, I shall do so in the future. Now, does Thistlemarsh have house spirits?”
“None that I’ve ever heard of. If there are house spirits here, they are not very good at making their presence known.”
He leaned back against her bedpost, his brows knitted in thought.
“That is a good point,” he muttered. “No house spirit would allow things to go to such disrepair.”
“What is this about?” Mouse asked. “There is something wrong with the magic, isn’t there?”
He grimaced and was silent.
“This works both ways,” Mouse said. “If you want me to answer your questions, I need to know why you are asking them.”
He sighed. “There is nothing wrong with the magic. My spells are all laid out perfectly.”
“Then what is the matter?”
“They are not sticking. Something is undoing them in the night.”
Mouse blinked. “I don’t understand. What could do that?”
“I do not know what could do it! And until we find out, I will not be able to get much further than superficial fixes each day.”
“Could house spirits challenge High Faerie magic?”
“A troop of them could, but you were right before. It is not house spirits. I would have seen them by now.”
“There is an old Faerie-blessed well on the grounds. It was converted into a pond, but the remains of the well are still under the water. Could the remnants of that magic cause the damage?”
“Not in the house, unless you flooded it entirely with well water.”
“All right. Go downstairs and wait for me in the study.”
“Why not speak here?”
“I cannot tackle problems in my nightgown.”
Thornwood scoffed, muttering a word that sounded distinctly like “mortals,” but he left without any additional fuss.
Mouse pulled on her clothes and ran a brush through her hair.
She plucked Blakeney’s from the bedside stand where she’d placed it the night before.
The worn red leather molded into the shape of her palm.
In the study, Thornwood lounged back in her uncle’s chair. Mickelwaithe stood beside him, listening absently as Thornwood spoke. Mouse caught the tail end of the conversation as she entered.
“We know the magic is working, and it does not fall apart immediately. Something is disentangling my spells systematically, but it is not strong enough to eradicate them altogether. What am I missing?”
“I cannot say, sir. All my scouting spells have come back empty-handed. No enchanted objects stand out. The girl is not performing any magic on her own either.”
Mouse jolted in surprise. Thornwood’s gaze snapped to her, then down to her book.
She paged through it until she came to a story involving a troop of Faeries who planned to steal from a house into which they were not yet invited.
She twisted the leather in her hands, showing the story to the Faeries.
Mickelwaithe leaned closer to the book. His dark eyes scanned the page, his hands hovering just above the paper.
“Alas, mortal storybooks are not known for their reliability in defeating real magic,” Thornwood said. “Besides, your fictional troop of Faeries fail their mission, do they not?”
“Are there more stories like this here?” Mickelwaithe asked.
“Yes,” Mouse said, ignoring Thornwood’s jab.
Mickelwaithe gestured to the book, and Mouse thumbed through it to a story about powerful magic pervading an ancient wood.
“Anything of interest?” Thornwood’s voice dripped with doubt.
“Perhaps,” the servant said. “This collection has been heavily annotated by someone with a good understanding of Faerie.”
Thornwood’s eyes met Mouse’s over the desk. She tilted her head, her lips twisting in satisfaction.
“It was my mother’s. She studied Faeries her entire life.”
Mickelwaithe gestured to the book. “May I?”
Mouse nodded, and he lifted it from her hands. The pages fanned out between his fingers as he held them out to Thornwood, pointing at a note tucked into the margin.
“Your mother wrote this?” Thornwood asked.
“Yes, she wrote all of the marginalia.”
“Did she have contact with Faeries?”
Mouse snorted, sinking into the low seat opposite the desk. “No one has had any contact with Faeries in over one hundred years. I think I would know if my mother had.”
Thornwood raised an eyebrow and placed a single finger on the note. “Your mother’s additions are specific. It is hard to believe that she knew those things innately.”
“As I said, she studied Faeries her whole life. We could not go to the market without her picking up a new story about them.”
Thornwood’s finger curled back into his fist, and he pursed his lips. “And you have studied this book yourself?”
“I have,” Mouse said primly. Behind Thornwood, Mickelwaithe’s lips twitched. “Margin notes and all. I myself was interested in the study of Faerie anthropology, before the war.”
Thornwood held the book out to her, eyebrows raised. “Your value as a partner in this deal increases daily.”
The sarcasm was not lost on Mouse, but it was tempered. “How kind of you. As I’ve said before, I know that Faeries cannot lie.”
He blanched, and Mickelwaithe coughed to cover what sounded suspiciously like a snort.
“Now,” she said, taking Blakeney’s back. “What am I looking for, exactly?”
“Any reference to arrangements between mortals and lesser creatures that might repel a High Faerie’s magic,” Thornwood said through clenched teeth. “All the better if it takes place in some form of mortal dwelling.”
She flagged a few of the stories, but Thornwood dismissed each one.
According to Blakeney’s, Brownies were common Faeries who would do magic in exchange for shelter or food, but no such offering had been made.
Gnomes were more interested in gardens, anyway, and they were a kind of common Faerie who lived in colonies. Imps favored ruins.
Thornwood laughed at a story featuring a unicorn.
Mouse flipped past pages of wishing wells, dungeons, and stark cliffsides. She paused on a page with a crumbling castle whose door was outlined in silver and gasped.
“Wait! There is something that comes to mind,” she cried.
“What?”
She took another hard look at the illustrated door before snapping her book shut and marching out into the garden. “Outside.”