Chapter 11
That night, Mouse held her candle at eye level as she crept down the stairs. She palmed her silver key, thinking of her mother and the key’s twin, which was around Bertie’s neck when he died.
Although there were no servants left, it was impossible to stanch the feeling that she would be caught at any moment by Dawson and sent back to bed with a reprimand for being up so late.
She shuddered when she reached the mirror at the bottom of the steps. Her absent pinky instantly drew her eye. In the mirror, the candlelight shot straight through it, down onto the stair.
Mouse studied the mirror’s surface as long as she could.
She knew there had to be a line where reality and magic blended, but whenever her eyes lingered on where she imagined the seam to be, the image would blur until she was forced to look away.
By the time she looked back, the line had shifted to another crease in her skin.
“You are wasting your time.”
Mouse nearly dropped the candle. Mickelwaithe stood at the bottom of the stairs. He was looking at her reflection, his eyes trained on her hand.
“That magic does not want to be found, and you are already at a disadvantage for giving its caster power over you.”
“Can you see where the magic ends?”
“No.”
“So, not all Faeries have the same abilities?”
Mickelwaithe lurched back as though she’d struck him. “Faeries?”
“Yes. Thornwood is a Faerie, isn’t he?”
“He is, but I am not,” Mickelwaithe said.
“Oh.”
A rush of icy breath crested around Mouse’s face, accompanied by a sound like branches cracking in the wind. Mickelwaithe’s lips were open, flicked up at the sides. He was laughing, Mouse realized.
“It is not a secret,” he said. “At least, not from you.”
“What are you, then?” Mouse asked. “If that is not a rude question.”
“I am a mortal, like you,” he said. He raised his eyebrow at Mouse’s sharp breath. “You might well be surprised. I have not looked human for a long time. I am mostly fog and ash now. I no longer know where the man ends, and the magic begins.”
“What happened to you?”
“I promised Thornwood my little finger in return for his help.”
Mouse yelped, clutching her hand to her chest.
His lips twisted. The whispering, cracking noise flowed from him again.
“That is not funny,” she said, straightening and bunching her hand behind her back.
“Stone does not remember its carver, only what is carved into it.”
“You are even more cryptic than your master.”
“He learned from me,” Mickelwaithe said. “I served his father before I served him.”
“So, it wasn’t Thornwood, but you did make a bargain with a Faerie, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Was it for magic?” Mouse asked, thinking of the candle spell she’d seen him perform on the Faerie-ruse.
“No, the deal was not for magic, but since I’ve been exposed to Faeries for centuries, their powers have rubbed off on me. And elements of their behavior as well, I suppose.”
He did not explain further, and Mouse found that she did not want to press him.
He stared into the mirror, and Mouse watched as the darkness around him shifted, blurring the space between him and the chamber behind them.
Her eyes stung, and she turned away, but he did not, gazing into the mirror with disinterest.
“How can you stand that?”
“There is no line between who I am now and who I was before. There is only the creature that exists in the mirror. That is my truest self—why should I look away from it?”
Mouse looked back at her reflection. She unclenched her fist and twiddled her fingers, focusing on her entire hand instead of the space where her pinky should have been. The biting pain behind her eyes faded.
“Thornwood is waiting for you down the hallway. He sent me to find you after muttering something about the boiler room,” he said. “I would hurry if I were you. Patience has never been his strength.”
“You are very open about your teasing when he’s out of earshot but silent when he is near. A strategic choice?”
“A wise one. We are allies here, but please do not mistake my familiarity as disrespect of my master.” Any trace of his whispering laugh was gone. Mouse had overstepped the mark, and it was time to go.
She pulled her robe tighter around her and walked down to the bottom of the stairs. Mickelwaithe did not follow her. Instead, he drifted closer to the mirror, his stare fixed. Mouse peered at it, but all she saw was darkness.
“What is it?” Mouse asked.
“A trick of the light,” he said. Mouse did not believe him. “You do not want to keep Thornwood waiting. He is insufferable when he feels slighted.”
“Good night, Mickelwaithe.”
“Good night,” he said.
When she looked back from the door, he still stood before the mirror, taking in his reflection. He lifted his hand to the glass before Mouse tore herself away. There were some things too private for observation. And others no ordinary mortal should know.