Chapter 12
Moonlight bled through the windows, illuminating the route to the boiler room in silver. Glinting strands of spiderweb shone above her, pointing her toward what should have been the warmest part of the house.
She could not remember a time when the boiler worked. Her mother had often spoken of the mythical era when heat would radiate from the pipes, but when Mouse arrived at Thistlemarsh, those tales seemed as much a fantasy as her mother’s tales of Faeries.
As though summoned by her thought, Thornwood melted out of the shadows, clothed head to foot in black.
His hair stood out like a halo in the dark.
His lips twisted into a smug smile as he took in her loose hair.
His eyes darkened when they landed on the hem of Mouse’s nightgown beneath her robe. She shifted, and her cheeks were hot.
“Your hair is luminescent,” she said, trying to break his gaze.
It worked. Thornwood tsked. Light flickered around them, although Mouse could not trace the source. It was soft but still strong enough that she could see into the shadows.
“Much better,” she said. “Mickelwaithe said something about the boiler room.”
“Yes. I would like to test my theory about this magic, and the source of heat is the best place to start.”
“That makes sense theoretically, but the boiler has not worked as long as I’ve lived here. To stay warm, we could choose either a fire or five sweaters and a coat.”
“We have nothing to lose by testing my theory. Where is this room?”
“Downstairs.”
Thornwood started down the hallway in the other direction before Mouse could finish. “Where are you going?”
He paused midstride. The archness of Mouse’s words hit their mark, and he turned slowly back to her.
“Downstairs?”
“I suppose you could go that way, but since we’ve agreed to work together, I have a shortcut.”
The laundry chute was tucked behind a wood panel, pressed between the dilapidated billiard room and a disused lounge.
Mouse ran her fingers along the line in the wood until her fingertip dipped.
She pushed on the space, and the trapdoor swung open.
A slide just large enough for a whole load of table linen disappeared down and out of sight.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Where is your sense of adventure?”
“With my common sense, both of which are telling me to take the stairs.”
She swung her feet over the edge. The cold steel bit through her robe and nightgown. She grinned. “Suit yourself,” she said, then dropped down into the dark.
Mouse was so caught up with adrenaline and, honestly, brave vanity that she had not accounted for the fact that she’d grown since she last used the slide.
Her elbows banged against the edges of the shoot, and her added weight increased her speed.
She fell, her stomach in her throat, before landing in a heap of discarded linen.
The laundry she expected. The maids had always been slow to clear out the area, even when everyone was pretending Thistlemarsh was not crumbling around them.
The cloth was soft enough to break her fall but did not keep her from banging her knee and twisting her shoulder painfully against the stone when she struck the bottom. Dust, white as flour, drifted in the air and caught in her lungs as she rolled off the pile.
“That was not my wisest moment,” she said between coughs. “At least Thornwood didn’t follow, the coward.”
A violent bang sounded from the tunnel above, followed by a shriek of rage, and then by Thornwood crashing into the place Mouse had landed moments earlier.
Dust transformed his pure-black clothes to muddled gray.
For what felt like an eternity, he lay bewildered in the laundry, his eyes wide with horror before he found her face through the dust.
“Did you have fun?” she asked.
“You are insane.”
Mouse took him by the elbow, and he did not protest when she helped him to his feet.
“The boiler is this way,” she said, gesturing down the servant hall and past the kitchen. Thornwood followed behind her, silently brushing his sleeves as he walked. She wondered why he did not clean his clothes with magic.
“You mentioned before that there is a difference between ‘little’ and ‘big’ magic. What is that difference?” she asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Mostly because I’m curious. You can summon magic to fight against a Faerie-ruse, but not to clean your clothes? One of those seems like a ‘bigger’ magic than the other.”
In the empty night, the covered furniture took on a malicious shape in the hallway. Mouse’s heart lurched in fear. Thornwood snapped his fingers, and again light flooded the room.
Don’t be ridiculous, Mouse told herself. There are no monsters hiding here. The room is the same as it’s always been.
“Magic related to the house is different,” he said.
Mouse waited, but he offered no other explanation. “That is not a helpful answer.”
“It is difficult for me to explain, not because you are human, but because you are not Faerie. I suppose the best analogy would be that all magic costs something.”
“That’s why I’m confused. Why wouldn’t the cost of magic for you fighting unseen forces be more than brushing yourself off?”
“Perhaps ‘cost’ is the wrong word. It is more…like a recipe, perhaps? Or a song?”
“A song?”
He brightened. “Yes, like an orchestral piece.”
“I’m still not following this metaphor.”
“If you were playing in a concert, and the cellos were already playing a harmony, it would make sense for you, on the violin, to join with the melody, correct?” Mouse nodded.
“That is how it is when you use magic against something magical. But, on the other hand, if you are standing in line to buy bread and then suddenly begin to play a single violin in midsong, it would seem strange.”
“Hmmm, so the magic you fought against this morning was the cellos to your violin?”
“Yes. And if I were to use magic to clear this filth off me, it would be the same as the lone violin. There is no magic present already to work in juxtaposition.”
“I did not realize that the balance was so complicated.”
Thornwood shrugged. “Why would you? You’ve never handled magic before. Most mortals think it is a direct exchange or a knowledge learned in books, rather than a skill to be honed.”
“Like gardening,” Mouse said. The edge of Thornwood’s mouth twitched.
“I suppose so. Many powerful Faeries use an external source of power, a well house, so to speak. With this, they can store excess magic to use later.” His left hand went to the ring on his right, resting over the cracked stone.
He tightened his fist, his knuckles going white behind the ring.
When he caught her staring, he hastily brought both hands to his sides.
“And using a power source is not an option for us now?” Mouse asked.
“No,” he said, teeth clenched. “It is not.”
They reached the boiler cupboard, a plain white door set against the brick. At Mouse’s touch, it swung open, releasing the thick musty scent of something warm and wet left too long.
Thornwood’s light followed them in, illuminating cobwebs and mold alike. She noted that the wooden floorboards were cool and spongy under her slippers.
“Delightful,” the Faerie said, wrinkling his nose. Mouse pressed the sleeve of her robe over her face.
The feeling of the material against her nose brought Mr. Hobb’s warning to mind, and she flushed. According to all rules of society and decorum, she should not be walking around with a handsome man at night in only her nightgown and robe.
But Thornwood was not a man, she reminded herself, and these were not the normal circumstances. No, she was not going to get squeamish now. He had her finger, after all. He could see her in her nightclothes.
“Hurry and start your experiment so we can leave,” she said, battling the obnoxious heat spreading across her cheeks.
“It is not as easy as that,” he said, clearly oblivious to her inner turmoil. “I’ll need your help.”
“What is the point of making a deal with a Faerie if I have to do everything myself?” Mouse grumbled.
Thornwood’s eyebrow quirked. “This will be over quicker with your assistance.”
“What do I need to do?” she asked with a sigh.
“I will start the same spell I performed upstairs, but smaller. Tell me where you see the first strings of magic. If there is a place where they meet, point me toward it.”
Mouse nodded. Instead of going to the wall or the boiler itself, as Mouse expected, Thornwood drew a circle in midair with the tip of his index finger.
Light burst through the circle, drowning out everything except the gossamer threads of magic lacing back and forth between the walls. A cluster of lines entwined around the boiler.
“There,” she shouted, pointing. She could not make out Thornwood in the light, but she felt his clothes swish by her. The light faded slowly. Mouse blinked hard, trying to banish the bright spots from her eyes.
“It is as I thought,” Thornwood said.
“A bit less cryptic for the mortal mind, if you please.”
Thornwood grinned at her from over his shoulder. “This shows that the enchantment is sewn into the fabric of the house itself.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Neither good nor bad—but it does mean that the spell was cast intentionally by a powerful magician.”
“How are you sure? Can’t magic grow on its own?”
“No, not at this level,” Thornwood said, flicking the golden remnants of magic from his hands. “At least, it cannot grow without fuel from a caster.”
“So, it needs additional magic, or it will sputter out?”
“To grow, yes, but spells can be stagnant for years. This caster must have started work at least a hundred years ago. This kind of magic was lost to humans long before Faeries left England.”
Mouse blinked in confusion at the ribbons of light threading through the boiler and nesting in its pipes.
“But why would the vines attach to the boiler? Everything in this room was installed less than fifty years ago, not a hundred.”