Chapter 13
When Mouse looked down, she expected to see a vortex of flame, but there was only Thistlemarsh’s roof, as dilapidated as always. A trail of smoke floated around them, but she could not determine its source. It seemed to start a few feet above where the roof ended.
The dragon was still there. It hovered, flapping its wings heavily until they were just above the gardens. Mouse could make out the wall they worked on the day before, the newly overturned earth a scar in the landscape.
“That was close,” Thornwood said.
With a weak groan, the dragon’s eyes rolled back in its head, and they all plummeted to the ground.
Mouse threw her hands up to protect her skull and curled around her belly, ready to take the impact on her side.
It would hurt, she knew, but it was better than breaking her back.
She jerked to a halt a foot above the grass.
From there, the air cushioned her fall, depositing her gently onto her knees.
The dragon crashed next to her, its head lolling to the side.
Thornwood landed on his feet, gold flowing from his fingertips down to his shoes and into the grass. He stretched his fingers and smiled.
Mouse hefted herself up, the pain in her burned leg radiating up through her thigh into her torso. She lurched sideways, and Thornwood’s smile faded.
“You’re hurt.”
Mouse brushed him away. The foul smell of burning fibers permeated the garden.
Her fingers flew to the dragon’s side. In the cover of night, the creature was only a shadow on the grass.
Suddenly, Mouse was back in France, tending to a burned boy who’d been caught in a firebombing. “Light. Give us some light.”
Without question, Thornwood summoned an orb, flooding the patch of grass. Mouse gasped.
The dragon was missing its tail, singed off in a jagged line. Smoke rose from the outline of its wings, embers flickering out along the edges. Most glaring was the black soot, smearing out all color except for its front paws and nose.
In her mind, she could hear planes overhead and the steady rhythm of artillery.
“We need water,” Mouse said.
“Water and silk do not mix.”
“They mix better than silk and fire!” Mouse snapped. She pulled back, wincing as she moved toward the house. “If you won’t summon it, I can bring it myself.”
“That is unnecessary,” the Faerie said. He lifted his hands, and a bucket of water sloshed next to her foot.
Mouse ignored him, emptying the bucket over the dragon’s head down to its torso. It was about the size of a horse now.
“Another,” she said, holding the bucket out to Thornwood. He refilled the bucket.
“So demanding,” he grumbled.
Mouse emptied the rest over the dragon, focusing mainly on the wound on its tail. It whined and shrank further.
“We will need to get it inside,” Thornwood said. “Otherwise, it will blow away. It is not strong enough to stay intact on its own.”
“I’ll need your help to carry it.”
“No, you will do no such thing. If you plan to be any good to anyone tomorrow, you need to rest your leg. I will return in a moment. Keep the creature calm.”
Mouse nodded, but Thornwood lingered. His hand twitched at his side, tapping out a disjointed rhythm.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
He turned sharply up the path to Thistlemarsh. The light stayed with Mouse and the dragon rather than following him to the house.
The dragon gasped again. Mouse shuffled over to its head and sat down beside it.
Its soot-covered scales flaked away in her hands as she stroked down its neck.
She lifted her hand, palm first, until only her fingertips remained on its face.
Slowly, she traced them up onto its cheeks.
The dragon shuddered, leaning into her touch.
She stroked the bridge of its nose, up between its eyes, and back down again.
“You are going to be all right,” she said over and over, the words transforming into a song. “It is not too late for you.”
Weakly, it nudged its golden muzzle into her knee. It was small enough now that Mouse could gently lift it by the shoulder and pull its head onto her lap. It sighed.
“You’ll be fine,” Mouse continued, her hands steady on the creature’s head. “You’ll see the sky whenever you like. You don’t seem like a man-eating dragon to me—otherwise, you would have snapped us up as soon as you saw us.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she pressed on.
“When I cook, I can give you the first share of what I make, if you’d like. I can only make egg sandwiches at the moment, but I will learn. My brother loves egg sandwiches, so I learned for him. To jog his memory.” She laughed, the sound more of a sob. “It didn’t work.”
The stars shimmered above, and Mouse traced miniature constellations along the dragon’s nose.
The garden door finally swung open, smacking against the wall. Thornwood’s silhouette filled the doorway, the light inside spilling out around him and onto the pathway. He dashed toward them, Mickelwaithe close on his heels.
Thornwood did not remark on the dragon’s size. He merely motioned for Mickelwaithe to stand near the animal’s legs. The Faerie servant pulled off his long black coat, and he pressed the fabric into Mouse’s hands.
“For the dragon—we don’t want it collapsing like spent coal,” he said.
Mouse nodded.
“We’ll have to lift it,” Thornwood said. “Do you think that it can stand that?”
“I’m not sure, but we don’t have much choice,” Mickelwaithe said. “It will certainly die if it remains here.”
His words made her choke on the sorrow growing in her throat. Leaning down, she put her mouth to the dragon’s ear.
“It will only hurt for a short while, I promise. So, try to stay with us, even though it is hard.”
She straightened, catching Thornwood turning away from her and staring at the ground, as though he was ashamed of her emotions on her behalf. Indignant rage flashed through her. She knew that her attachment to the dragon was irrational—silly, even—but she felt it deep in her bones.
Wordlessly, Thornwood and Mickelwaithe took hold of the dragon. Thornwood propped up its head and shoulders, and Mickelwaithe supported its back, legs, and hips.
Mouse weaved Mickelwaithe’s coat around it slowly, careful not to jostle against its scales. The dragon whined; its eyes trained backward to look at her face. She gave it a shaky smile.
As soon as they wrapped the coat around it, Thornwood and Mickelwaithe lifted the dragon up completely.
The creature shuddered, a ring of char floating out from under the coat and down to the ground, but it did not collapse into ashes as they brought it up the path.
Mouse trotted behind. The pain in her leg shot through her anytime she bent her knee.
She collapsed on the staircase as soon as they were through the door.
“Is it all right?” she asked their backs, her voice crackling.
“It is frightened, but alive.”
“Bring it into the lounge—there is a sofa bed there. I doubt it could stand the stairs,” Mouse said. “It is warmer there, too.”
Both men ducked into the hallway, leaving Mouse leaning against the decaying staircase banister. There was nothing else she could do for the dragon now that it was set up in the lounge.
Taking a deep breath, she clutched at the singed, grass-stained hem of her nightgown. Slowly, she peeled the fabric away from the burned flesh. The cloth was wet with sweat, dew, and blood. The skin on her leg stung as she lifted the cloth away.
A yellow welt the size of Mouse’s hand stood out against her skin, already bubbling up in a line of red blisters through the center, threatening to split down the middle. She hissed as she lifted herself up the stairs, keeping her nightgown firmly in her hand and away from the wound.
On the second floor, in an abandoned bedroom, she found a bathtub.
To her relief, the white porcelain was clean. Mouse distantly noted that she should write to Dawson and thank him.
She pulled the cold tap. It stuck for a moment before the water flowed from the nozzle, then swirled in the tub. The coolness rising off the water made the burn’s sting sharper, and Mouse shuffled out of her robe and pulled the nightgown over her head.
She groaned as she saw the dirt, soot, and grass speckling her ankles and the tops of her feet through her slippers. She could not bathe in dirt with an open wound. Any nurse worth their salt knew that.
Hastily, she pulled the plug out and hopped in as the tap gushed. She held her legs under the rushing water, letting it carry away the debris while simultaneously cooling the burn. Once she was sufficiently clean, she stepped back out, drained any remaining dirt, then returned to filling the tub.
She waited until the water was just below the rim before twisting the tap back. Mouse sank down, basking in the instant relief against her leg.
A knock at the door made her jolt, and water sloshed onto the floor.
“It is me,” Thornwood said. “The creature is settled on the sofa downstairs. Time will tell how it fares through the rest of the night.”
Mouse hummed back, not trusting herself to speak.
“You were hurt as well,” he said after a few moments of silence.
“Yes.”
“Will you be all right?” Mouse looked at the burn. It was still a horrible yellow, flecked with splotches of red. Thornwood shuffled outside the door. “I can look at it when you’re ready. There are a few spells I can try, as it is a wound caused by an enchantment.”
“You have used a lot of magic tonight.”
“Yes,” he said. “There will be no teleporting for me tomorrow.”
She frowned. “Was that a joke?”
There was a long silence before Thornwood spoke again. “Perhaps I should stick to sarcasm, based on your reaction.”
“You surprised me, that is all,” she said. The relief of the cool water began to dissipate, and sharp pangs shot through her leg. “I will be right out, if you will wait for me.”
“Of course,” he said.
Mouse suddenly felt hot, embarrassed about something she could not name. “Thank you,” she called. “For helping the dragon…And me.”