Chapter 10
Mouse woke the following day to the patter of rain against her window. Thornwood’s new heating spell had survived the night. For a few minutes she allowed herself the luxury of watching the raindrops flow down the pane in cozy contentment.
But the day beckoned, no matter how unappealing the trek to the garden seemed in a drizzle. She rolled out from under the covers before scooping them up and over her head in a makeshift robe.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when her foot brushed against a silver tray on the floor.
It was laid out with tea, sugar, lemon, and a mound of vibrant berries.
The colorful display drew her in, and instead of pulling the tray onto the bed beside her, she slunk down to the floor.
A single lush strawberry balanced at the top of the tower, shiny and speckled with golden seeds.
Mortals were not meant to eat Faerie food, but this was in her own house. She pinched the berry between her fingers, half expecting it to melt away as soon as she touched it.
Gingerly, she placed the fruit on the tip of her tongue. It was still a strawberry, even though it was ripe at the tail end of winter.
Juice burst when her teeth punctured the skin, the taste like a star dancing on her tongue.
Lemon and sugar disappeared quickly into the brown depths of her teacup.
As she lifted it to her lips, she could smell every ingredient, individually and together.
The scent filled her senses, sparkling from her mouth down her throat.
She sighed as the taste of hospital coffee faded from her memory. The lemon lingered behind her teeth.
“Magic,” she said in awe, taking another greedy sip.
At the hospital, the only thing Roger could remember from day to day was what time coffee was served. Early on, Mouse had smuggled in treats from outside the ward like peppermint and the rare shortbread, but nothing delighted Roger as much as the bitter, burned coffee from the canteen.
“It is the routine,” a doctor told her when she asked him. “The coffee gives him something to look forward to every day—a kind of structure.”
She knew she was fortunate to nurse at the hospital where her brother was located; she did not know any other nurses who were so lucky. However, the blank look on Roger’s face when she offered him the little things he had once loved broke her heart.
When Mouse said goodbye to Roger on her final day in the hospital, all he knew to associate her with was that daily cup of coffee.
Despite her grim ruminations, by the time she’d polished off her cup of tea, Mouse felt renewed energy radiating from her like sunlight.
She shuffled into her gardening clothes and thick rubber boots. Standing in front of her small mirror, she laced her hair into a braid and tied it with two dark green ribbons.
When she turned back to collect the tray, it had vanished, leaving only a rectangular outline in the carpet.
Thornwood was waiting for her when she walked into the entrance hall.
He had opted for a simple brown wool coat with matching trousers.
The lines of his clothes were crisp, as though they were ironed while he wore them.
His boots ended just past his knee, and his white-blond hair contrasted vividly with a green woven tie secured around his neck.
If he noticed Mouse’s ribbons were the same color, he had the grace not to mention it.
The stinging pain Mouse felt looking at him before had lessened. She supposed she was getting used to looking at Faeries, as one might get used to seeing in the dark. He could even be called handsome now, if not a bit unnerving in his perfection. Not that Mouse would ever tell him that, of course.
“Thank you for breakfast,” she said.
He shrugged. “You made sandwiches. Consider us even.”
“It’s always an exchange for you. Do you ever do anything just because you want to help someone, with nothing in return?”
Thornwood tilted his head. “I don’t understand the question.”
Mouse groaned.
The gardens were cold, despite Mouse’s wool coat. “Let’s hope we aren’t hit with any storms.”
“It will hardly matter what the hedgerows look like if my magic doesn’t stick to the walls inside,” the Faerie grumbled.
“Mr. Hobb and I aren’t even working on hedgerows. He’s already trimmed them back.”
Thornwood waved his hand in dismissal. “The mortal custom of attempting to tame nature for their delight is a mystery to me. Why trap flowers somewhere unnatural when you could go to the woods to observe them where they are happiest?”
“It’s natural to want to take care of something and to help it to grow.”
“It is natural for a mortal, I suppose. Faeries delight in cutting down other living creatures with both words and steel. But we do not transplant flowers.” He cut off when he saw Mouse’s frown. “What have I said now?”
“Nothing. I just realized that your Faerie court sounds a bit like my life with my uncle,” she said.
It took her a few more steps to realize he had stopped between two hedgerows a few feet back.
“What is it? Do I need to invite you past them?” Mouse asked.
Thornwood did not respond, his eyes trained on the interlaced branches.
She could see a few lopsided bird nests emerging from the thorns.
A blue string marked one nest, a strip of the summer sky in the darkness.
Still, there was nothing in the hedges to garner Thornwood’s attention, as far as Mouse could tell.
“Are you hunting a rabbit?” she whispered, lifting onto her toes as though looking for a furry shape in the brush.
Her question cut through his thoughts, and he smirked at her. She was beginning to learn that his smirk was more indulgent than condescending.
He sidestepped her question by walking through the gap between the hedgerows.
“Let’s find that gardener of yours and get out of this rain.”
“Remember, we are going to ease into asking Mr. Hobb our questions. I don’t want you scaring him off. Follow my lead.”
It was easy to find Mr. Hobb’s form in the vast expanse of the gardens. He was working next to a gaping, muddy scar on the lawn where Mouse had torn up one of her uncle’s garish flower beds.
Mr. Hobb squinted at them, heavy rain dripping from his hat down onto his coat.
He brightened as he saw Mouse approach, but his smile dropped when he saw Thornwood at her side.
Mouse’s hands stung as she wrung them together.
She could not put her finger on the source of her anxiety, as the likelihood that Mr. Hobb would guess Thornwood was a Faerie was as likely as him being a Faerie himself.
Still, her entire body twitched with the urge to flee.
“I thought I would find you out here,” Mouse said. “Rain or shine, eh?”
“If a little rain will stop you, England is not the place to plant a garden. We can take advantage of the soft earth to make headway on the wall for the climbing roses.”
“Brilliant,” she said. “Mr. Hobb, this is…Mr. Thornwood. You might have heard that he is here to fix Thistlemarsh’s interior while we work on the gardens. I’m sorry there has been such a delay in introducing you.”
The Faerie held out his hand, and it was only because Mouse knew Mr. Hobb so well that she registered the slight jerk to his arm as he moved to take it.
“Thornwood, Mr. Hobb has been our gardener for as long as I can remember. He was even here in my mother’s day.”
Mr. Hobb smiled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “I might as well be part of the landscape at this point.”
“Can we help?” Mouse asked.
Casting a dubious glance at Thornwood and his elegant attire, he gestured to a shovel leaning against his trusty wheelbarrow. “If you like.”
Mr. Hobb tottered away to said wheelbarrow. Mouse scooped up the shovel before holding it out to Thornwood. He stared at the worn wooden handle, bewildered.
“Haven’t you ever worked with your hands?” Mouse said under her breath. Although Mr. Hobb seemed engrossed in clearing the straggling vines, Mouse knew he was watching them from the corner of his eye. “If we want information from him, we have to help him work. It’s only fair.”
“Fair? He is a servant; you don’t pay him to do half the job.”
Mouse scoffed. She snatched the shovel herself before joining Mr. Hobb.
Soon, Thornwood followed them.
“All right, what can I do to help?” he asked. His arms were crossed high over his chest, although Mouse was sure that his magic could keep him warm if he wanted it to.
Mr. Hobb narrowed his eyes. Without a word, the old man pulled a trowel from the tool belt at his waist. He pointedly handed it to Mouse rather than passing it to Thornwood.
She winced at the cut, but Thornwood did not seem to notice or care.
He was too absorbed by the steel gardening instrument she pressed into his hand.
He did not hiss at the metal’s touch, as Mouse half expected him to, considering the trowel was partially composed of iron.
Perhaps it was only pure iron that hurt Faeries, at least in small quantities.
Mouse wanted to ask, but Mr. Hobb’s presence stopped her.
“What is this for?” the Faerie asked, oblivious to Mouse’s curiosity.
“Digging,” Mouse said. “We’re building a wall for roses to grow over, so we need a solid foundation to lay the bricks on. Go through what I dig and make sure there aren’t any weeds working their way into the hole.”
“On my hands and knees?”
Mr. Hobb snorted. Thornwood shot him a fiery look.
“Fine,” he hissed.
Mouse had to keep in a sharp burst of laughter.
To her surprise, he was adept at pulling weeds, even without magic, and if Mouse was impressed, she knew Mr. Hobb must be doubly so.
However, the gardener merely shrugged and beckoned Mouse to the wheelbarrow, where a stack of slate-gray rocks was piled and waiting for their new home. Straining against the weight, Mouse carried the stones to the trench before laying them down next to one another like chessboard squares.