Chapter 9 #3
He had changed from his stained clothes to a practical set of trousers, a plain white shirt, a too-fine burgundy vest studded with gold, and a dark brown jacket.
Mickelwaithe was still cloaked in black from head to toe, and although Mouse had to admire Thornwood’s finery, it was clear which of the two Faeries was more equipped to take on the spell again.
The servant met her eyes over Thornwood’s shoulder, and a silent understanding passed between them.
Thornwood was ridiculous.
They brushed past Mouse, and although he did not bend to help her to her feet, Mickelwaithe at least cast her an apologetic look, unlike his master, who trod on the edge of her gown. Any camaraderie she might have felt for him dried, leaving only a silver vein of spite.
Fine, she thought, let him try to break through the magic without me. She did not intend to keep whatever had happened with the mirror secret forever. She was not sure what the voice from the mirror was, after all, but she could guess it was part of whatever was restricting his power.
No, she would tell him, but she would wait to do so just long enough to watch him struggle a bit. Childish, yes, but she never claimed to be a lady.
Mouse pulled another chair into the room, but this time she set it further away from the Faerie-ruse to avoid the magic’s swell. Then she sat back and watched as they got to work.
Mickelwaithe pressed his left shoulder against the wall. The candle dangled upside down between his fingers so the wick was closest to the floor. The wick lit. Mouse gasped as a trail of blue fire dripped down from it onto the carpet, as viscous as oil.
Thornwood threw his hand toward her, a warning as much as a demand for silence.
Mouse held her breath, watching the magic unfold.
The drops thickened until a steady trickle of fire pooled at Mickelwaithe’s feet.
It spread slowly, blue and molten, until it touched the edge of the Faerie-ruse.
Two lines of blue flame climbed the wall in a perfect rectangle, meeting at the top.
“Hold it steady,” Thornwood said. He pressed his finger into the middle of the rectangle.
Instead of sparks, a bubble of gold light grew under his finger, like a blister against the wallpaper.
The green disk reappeared. It stretched around the bubble, then rippled out to the edges of the makeshift door, faster and faster, until waves of magic crashed against the sides and splashed onto Mickelwaithe’s coat.
Even before Thornwood’s brow crinkled, Mouse knew his magic would fail. Despite its cage, the gold bubble continued to grow, casting flickers of gold light through the room every few seconds. More fire flooded from the candle.
“Blow it out!” Mouse cried. Both their heads turned toward her, and their eyes were animal. She shouted again, hoping her words cut through the magic thrall. “Blow the candle out, or you’ll burn the house down!”
Thornwood’s eyes snapped toward the candle. The golden bubble burst.
Mouse saw Mickelwaithe douse the flame before the room flooded with light. The air scorched her, pricking at her skin and hair even from her seat by the door.
We must not look at goblin men…
The same voice echoed around her. Mouse noted how the bubble of light pulled back to the center of the scorched square in the wall.
It left tendrils in its wake, which weaved through the air.
They all ended at the same place but stretched to different corners of the room as though the house was trying to hold the Faerie-ruse in place.
She watched as one of the tendrils twisted through the mirror closest to the door.
They faded with the light until they were shadows that she would blink away the instant she closed her eyes.
She got up and traced the lines with the tips of her fingers as she strained to keep her eyes open. The lines did not harm her, but they thrummed under her touch. Her pinky tingled as she followed the vine to the mirror.
“Fascinating,” she whispered.
“What are you muttering?” Thornwood groaned.
“You’re trying to kill a weed by cutting off its head.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?”
Mouse sighed, turning away from her inspection. “The enchantment on the Faerie-ruse is just an extension of the magic, not the core.”
Her words had a physical effect on them both. Mickelwaithe’s gaze shot to Mouse’s face. Thornwood’s mouth slackened, and he was beside her in seconds. The smell of magic clung to him like cigar smoke.
“Go on,” he said.
“During that last blast of light, I saw the links between the Faerie-ruse and whatever other magic is holding it in place.”
“Do you remember where these links were in the room?”
“One, at least,” Mouse said, lifting her pinky to the mirror. Thornwood followed her fingertips as though he was attached by a string. Her hand met the cool glass. Rings of fog formed against her fingertips. “The line ends here.”
Thornwood tilted his head. He was practically under Mouse’s arm. Then, on her tiptoes behind him, she started to move out of the way.
“Don’t move,” he said. Then, at Mouse’s sigh, he added, “Please.”
She obliged, and he shifted around her arm. She slipped back onto her heels, her fingers still pinned in place.
He pressed his ear to the wall and closed his eyes. Eventually, he spoke. “You can move away from the mirror now.”
Mouse stumbled back. The tips of her fingers glowed bright red with cold. Thornwood’s eyebrows rose when his gaze landed on the reflection of her missing pinky.
“Did you hear a voice?” Thornwood asked.
For a moment, she hesitated. Could she truly trust a Faerie? Would he turn this information around somehow to trick her? After all, the other magic was trying to warn her away from him.
But if Thornwood’s magic did not stick to Thistlemarsh, she would lose the Hall to Carlyle. Mouse already gave Thornwood her finger. It was time to admit that she was committed.
She nodded. “When the bubble burst, and again just now.”
He hummed, moving so close to the mirror’s surface that his breath misted on the silver.
“Mickelwaithe, your assistance is required.”
At the speed of shadow, the Faerie servant was beside them.
“What do you hear?” Thornwood asked.
“A song from my youth,” Mickelwaithe said.
Thornwood nodded before turning to Mouse. “And you?”
She looked toward the mirror. The whispering had stopped, although Thornwood and Mickelwaithe said they could hear it.
“A warning.”
“The exact words would be helpful if you can recall them.”
“Something about goblin men and fruit. It’s a famous poem.”
“Curious.” Rising to his full height, Thornwood placed his palm flat against the mirror.
Magic rose. Mouse was ready for the circle of sparks this time, which grew around his hand instantly to fill the entire frame.
Beyond the fire, Thornwood’s reflection smiled, his teeth pulled back into a feral mask.
When he spoke, his voice was rough and clipped.
“You are the expert, Lady Mouse. How do you pull up a troublesome plant?”
Mouse swallowed. “By the root.”
The air tightened. Mickelwaithe took hold of Mouse’s shoulder, and she glanced at him in surprise. His expression was carefully blank as he released her.
“Hold your breath,” the servant whispered. “Extended exposure to magic can addle the human mind.”
She tensed and looked back at Thornwood. “What are you doing exactly?”
“I’m weeding.” Thornwood’s smile was crooked.
Mouse frowned, but she sucked in a ragged breath and felt Mickelwaithe do the same beside her. Fire licked at Thornwood’s clothes with blunt tongues, and his smile grew wider by the second, splitting his reflection.
In a flash, Thornwood’s green spellwork broke through the fire and splintered through the room. His magic traced the same lines she’d seen in the burst of light, as fine as thread. Mouse felt a slight ache in her pinky where her flesh met the spell.
The tangle grew, forking through the room, between walls, and out the door. The three followed its path as it spread. Mouse’s heart pounded in her chest.
The shape the magic created was massive, a spiderweb of overlapping strands that crisscrossed between portraits, tables, and doors. In the entry hall, tangles clustered along the tapestry, in the great elk antlers, and above the doorways.
The Faerie men stalked the lines like cats. Thornwood’s jacket sleeves bore long, dark scorch marks that reached his elbow. He raised his right hand, and Mouse gasped. His hands were clawed.
He snapped his fingers, and the glow of his magic fell away from the threads.
Lines of gold remained suspended in the air, the bars of an immense birdcage.
With her pinky, Mouse plucked at the closest string.
It hummed like a harp. The sound echoed through the hallway, and the other lines joined in harmony where they crossed.
Whenever they met with one of Thornwood’s repairs, the string ate away at his work like sandpaper.
“Well, that explains your difficulties,” Mouse said.
“Yes, it’s clear that this spell is the culprit dismantling my magic.”
“And you cannot work around it?”
Thornwood gestured at the size of the spell. “Not in such a brief time frame. Even magic has limitations. Without untying this knot, I cannot fix Thistlemarsh in time.”
“So, we will need to find the root and weed it out. Surely we can just follow the thicker strands.”
“Oh yes, and I’ll just pull them out blindly, shall I?” Thornwood rounded on her, baring his teeth and clenching his clawed hand at his side. Mouse started back, squaring her shoulders.
Mickelwaithe stepped between them, his palms open at his sides. “You’ve had a rough go of it, sir. It would be wise to regroup.”
His voice carried like breath through the hollowness of an empty bottle. Shaking, his master retreated from them into the shadows. When he reemerged, his teeth were blunted human points again.
“Forgive me. At times I struggle to control my temper,” Thornwood said.
Mouse adjusted her sleeve, which she had just noticed had a few jagged burn marks that matched Thornwood’s.
“I struggle to control mine as well. It seems we both need lessons from Mickelwaithe.”
Thornwood smiled weakly, glancing at his servant. “Would you be willing to teach us?”
“I am afraid that you are both beyond the power of even my skill,” he said, tone flat.
“Well,” Thornwood said, his countenance returning to something more sardonic. “As Mickelwaithe has abandoned us to our wickedness, we might as well set ourselves to the task at hand. As I was about to say, Lady Mouse, blindly pulling at strands will not solve the problem.”
“I don’t understand. Can’t the strands lead us to the source of the magic?”
“They could, yes, but each layer of this spell is built into the very foundation of Thistlemarsh. One tug on the wrong end and the entire building might come crashing down around our ears. Which, although a minor inconvenience for Mickelwaithe and me, would be a bit more serious for you.”
She bit her lip. “And detangling this spell is the only way to repair Thistlemarsh within the month?”
Thornwood nodded.
Mouse surveyed the room. The coils of gold wrapped around ceiling beams, diving in and out of sight beneath the plaster. Some threads disappeared through the floor, weaving in and out of the boards like pie lattice.
There was too much, and they had wasted seven days of thirty on superficial work that had already collapsed. Mouse sank to the floor, overwhelmed with hopelessness and loathing. She buried her face in her hands.
“Your father was a gardener.” Mouse’s chin snapped up. Thornwood tilted his head at her. “What is the best way to prune back this weed?”
“We can try to find the root, as I said, but there are so many overlapping places. It makes it difficult, as they are such varied sizes.”
“Where would you begin?” he asked. “If we needed to stop its growth as fast as possible.”
“The thickest strands will likely be closest to the roots,” Mouse said. “But I’m not an expert. Mr. Hobb is the person to ask if you want the best day-to-day information on gardening. But I cannot go and wake him.”
Thornwood wrinkled his nose. Mickelwaithe coughed, and his master sniffed, his features relaxing.
“If you believe asking the human gardener will help us, then you must consult with him. We have already lost too much time.”
“I will speak to him in the morning.”
Thornwood shifted, like a creature caught in a corner. “I will go with you.”
“To meet Mr. Hobb?” Mouse asked.
“No need for such an incredulous tone. I have seen the man many times in the woods.”
“I assume he will see you glamoured as a visiting architect, the same way the villagers did.” Mouse raised an eyebrow. “And you won’t hurt him?”
“Certainly not,” Thornwood spat. “I am not threatened by an old mortal gardener. Nor should he be threatened by me.”
“Do you swear it?” Mouse asked.
“Why do you care so much about a servant?” Mickelwaithe frowned behind him, and Thornwood groaned, turning to him. “I am not talking about you.”
“Besides the fact that he is a good man? He is also one of the few people who remember how my brother used to be, before the war.”
“Where is this brother of yours? Living it up on the continent while you struggle here?”
Mouse drew back as if struck. Thornwood went still.
“My brother jumped in front of my cousin to try to save him from a shell. The shell killed Bertie, but Roger…He does not remember me. He spends most of his waking life screaming. And the rest of his time is spent ruminating over scratches in stonework. So forgive me if I intend to take care of him and anyone who remembers how he used to be. Or wants to help him as he is now.”
Mouse’s breath came out in bursts. Mickelwaithe met her gaze over Thornwood’s shoulder, a glint of respect in his eyes. Thornwood would not look at her.
“You have my word I will not hurt the gardener,” Thornwood said.
“Thank you,” Mouse said curtly before hurrying off to the Matchbox for the rest of the night.